Vindicate
Vin•di•cate
[vin-di-keyt]
Verb (used with an object)
1. to provide justification for.
2. obsolete to set free
Backstage, Pro-Wrestling Arena, Phoenix, AZ (2004)
The changing room is full of the hustle and bustle of the post-show party, enveloped by the low hum of incessant chatter that complemented by the occasional extraneous noise: a loud guffaw in response to some crude joke, the imitated protest of the groped showgirl, the squelch of a fart, the nostril vibrations of someone hovering a line of cocaine; the air saturated with the scent of drying sweat, blood and liniment; the floor a collage of discarded bandages, jock straps and crushed beer cans.
Amongst the onset of this adrenaline-fuelled binge are two characters of primary focus. At the door stands a man pockmarked with blood and bruises yet glistening with his own self-satisfaction; a championship strap draped over his shoulder. Correction, it is not a championship belt, it is THE Championship belt; for this man is “The Real Deal” J-Man, and he is the Future of Wrestling Champion. He is beaming with delight, and next to him stands a bookish looking man, Dictaphone in hand raised to the lips of the Champ, etching his every word into the fabric of history. The bookish man is a reporter for Wrestling Weekly and this is THE big scoop.
“I’ve put this matter to bed my friends. There were those who doubted I could do it. They said I didn’t have the bottle anymore. They said I’d become to comfortable, that I’d lost my edge. I couldn’t beat this man: this younger, bigger and hungry man. This is my vindication.”
No more than 10 feet away from the Champ’s interview is another man. He too is covered in bruises, blood and sweat. However, he is not drinking beer, or groping some broad, or sniffing out Charlie, or celebrating his success. This man sits alone, elbows on knees, eyes to floor, detached from those around him like a man condemned on death row. This man is crestfallen. This man is John Dionysus. This man has just been defeated by J-Man 3-2 in a five-match series for THE Championship belt. Nobody knows it but John Dionysus has left his soul in the ring, and, more alarmingly, John Dionysus doesn’t know where to find it. Something else nobody knows: with fame, fortune and success laid out before him John Dionysus is about to leave the arena and disappear like a ghost in the night. This man will not be seen again for seven years.
From 10 feet away one word penetrates John Dionysus’ pensive thoughts, a word that bounces of the walls of his skull and reverberates inside his mind like a bass drum. Vindication. It is a word that will haunt the mind of John Dionysus for the next seven years.
-----
Redeem
Re•deem
[Ri-deem]
Verb (used with an object)
1. to buy or pay off; clear by payment.
2. to recover (something pledge) by payment or other satisfaction.
3. to make amends for.
4. to reinstate in someone's estimation or good opinion; restore to favour.
5. Christianity (of Christ as Saviour) to free (mankind) from sin by his death on the Cross
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word wanted blood.
2000 years ago a boy who had become a man stepped out of the wilderness in a desolate part of the world where now lay the shadows of the once holy city of Jerusalem; now a city teeming with licentiousness, usury, false prophecy and all manner of corruption. The man, who was the son of a carpenter, asked only one thing of those who listened: forgiveness of sins.
However, forgiveness could not be bought or bartered or bribed. It was given in blood. So this son of a carpenter was nailed upon the cross and as his blood flowed so did the redemption. Today his followers drink his blood in remembrance that they too can be redeemed by his blood.
When Rameses II refused to obey the Hebrew God’s command to let his people free from servitude, he called in the debt with blood. The rivers ran red and the skies with filled with the cries of weeping mothers at the loss of Egypt’s sons. The Hebrew people were redeemed by blood.
In 1945 the western ‘democracies’ cleansed the world of its most powerful and terrifying fascist state. The world breathed a sigh of relief that it had be redeemed of its madness. Redeemed at the cost of 280 million litres of blood.
-----
Salvation
Sal•va•tion
[sal-vey-shuh’n]
Noun
1. the act of saving or protecting from harm, risk, loss, destruction, etc.
2. the state of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
3. a source, cause, or means of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
4. Theology deliverance from the power and penalty of sin; redemption.
The door creaked as it was pushed open and the whistle of wind outside echoed through the belly of the church. The man who had entered breathed deeply through his nostrils and down into his diaphragm, following this with a prolonged and noisy exhalation. He was not surprised to find his nose filled a musty smell that excited his memories of this place. He removed the hood protecting his head from the elements outside, and stepped forward in the direction of the altar, every step on the stone floor provoking some reminiscence. The familiarity of the place, and his comfort with this familiarity surprised him.
As he feet moved quickly and evenly, the rest of his senses surveyed the surroundings in the manner of someone used to behaving inconspicuously: the wooden pews that held a congregation of just under 100 and provided them with the seating discomfort that was a form of minor flagellation; the ornate columns and beams adorned with the dancing and ecstatic figures of the heavenly saints; the glow of the candles fighting against the gloom; the sweet yet overwhelming fragrance of incense; the ear-splitting silence that categorises an empty church.
Having reached the altar the man stopped. Above him towered the crucifix: the mangled and contorted image of the suffering saviour looking down with accusative humility. Nearby rested a childish looking replication of the nativity scene; an odd juxtaposition to the pierced Christ in the man’s mind. Drawn to a series of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross the man thought to himself how it was impossible for anything whose roots involved such violence to achieve any sort of peace.
A shuffling noise from over his shoulder snapped the man out of his reverie and he turned on his heels to find a dozen feet away the confessional box giving the man a feeling of having been locked on by some traction beam. The man walked toward the booth without care for the sound his steps that echoed loudly through the vault. He moved the purple velvet curtain aside and took a seat, poised to take the latest snapshot of his broken soul.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” the man muttered gruffly.
From the other side of the booth’s partition came the question, “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“Seven years.”
“And what is the nature of your sin, my son?” asked the priest.
“Metaphysical.”
The partition was pulled back and the man found himself face to face with the priest: a man of excellent complexion who looked to be in his 60s, but was actually in his 80s. Only the eyes conceded weariness of a long life, but still maintained the brightness of a wise and energetic mind.
“John Dionysus. It is so good to see you.”
“And you Father Augustine. You received my telegram?”
“Yes,” smiled the priest, “but I did not think you would come until I heard the door today.”
A silence descended upon the chamber, not the awkward, empty silence of the unacquainted, but the fuller silence that is enjoyed between two individuals at ease with each other in the way only long and loyal friends enjoy. It was Father Augustine who broke the silence.
“So you are to wrestle again?”
“Yes”
“John, this is dangerous road, and you know it. You have travelled this road before, and it is not the road you seek.”
With sharpness, John Dionysus retorted: “And your road, is this the road I should seek?”
Immediately John Dionysus regretted this remark to a man who had shown him nothing but kindness, even though both men led existences completely at odds with one another. However, such was the intimacy between these two men, Father Augustine knew John apologised, even if he did not utter the words “I’m sorry”.
“Why do you persist?” asked Father Augustine.
After a pause that seemed in no way unnatural John Dionysus replied.
“You once told me ‘hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you try to do the right thing then the dawn will come’. Well I have seen the dark. I have been the dark for the past seven years. I’ve been to oblivion and searched the basement of my soul and still those words sing out to me. I’ve realised that what I’ve spent my life doing is avoiding the right thing. I’ve waited and watched my whole life, but I have never acted.”
“And you think that spilling your blood for the gratification of others is the right thing?”
“That, father, was something not even below your saviour.”
A pause for thought.
“I don’t know,” Dionysus started, “if it is the right way, but it is a way. I have never forgotten that night seven years ago when I left Phoenix. But despite my despair a light continued to flicker. I want my vindication: from this spectre that has plagued me my whole life; from myself.
“Well, John Dionysus, you have the appropriate name for this madness you pursue. And how long will it be before your next confession?”
“Father, I’m sure you will be seeing me again soon.”
[end]
