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Deathbed	By : MadameManga Category: WWF/WWE > General Views: 2323 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrities of WWE/WWF. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
This story is very loosely inspired by the plot of the opera “The Flying Dutchman”. I’ve cast a number of familiar people in the roles; they are not intended to be seen as their real selves, but as actors playing parts. All recognizable characters are the property of WWE, and no infringement is intended. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only.
Written in 2001.
Deathbed

by Madame Manga
“No—” I said in a strangled voice. “No, I’m not undead. I can touch holy objects.” My heartbeat pounded in my ears, another proof of life. What could the Bearer of Indictments mean? “Like these—”
Deadman suddenly glanced at the cartridges I had been about to display, and I broke off and hid them inside my jacket. Aitch hadn’t missed the exchange, though I wasn’t sure if he had noticed what I was holding before I concealed it; his sharp eyes went back and forth between us.
“How could I have died in the first place?” I scoffed. “My car didn’t even go in the ditch! All I had was a flat tire.”
“I assure you, madam, you were killed,” said the Bearer of Indictments, making an exaggerated bow in my direction. “You have passed through the valley of the shadow of Death. And, obviously, made a return from hence.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, he ain’t,” said Deadman unexpectedly. “He ain’t allowed to tell a downright lie.” I looked at him in startlement. “That don’t mean he can’t find some damn clever ways around it, ‘cause he’s a devious son of a bitch and I ain’t surprised in the least that ol’ Aitch has gone and took up with him. But if he says you died, woman, you died.”
He looked at me more carefully, again visibly restraining his fury. Perhaps all that held him back from the brink was the thought of his misstep in the barn—he’d bitterly regretted frightening me, though he had looked on me as an ordinary mortal at the time. Was I indeed undead, and if I was, what did that mean?
Of course he recalled that I could touch without harm something that had instantly attacked his sorcery-infused body, but since neither of us knew anything about the cartridges other than what Aitch had claimed, that evidence couldn’t be conclusive.
I put my hand on my pounding heart, pressing it slightly in the hope that my lover would remember its living beat against him. But could its action also be a necromantic trick? So recently, we had lain together, sharing everything, and now even I doubted what my motives might have been. He could see that doubt in my eyes, I knew, and his gaze struck into me like a knife.
“I dunno,” said Deadman slowly. “It seems likely you’re undead. There ain’t any other way you could have died and still be eating and drinkin’ an’ making…and so on. Far as I know, that is, that’s the only way, an’ I guess I know somethin’ about the Devil’s methods.”
“Er-hem.” The Bearer of Indictments cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, seemingly anxious to get off the subject now that he had introduced it. “In any case, this woman arrived at that spot with a heavy burden of unatoned, unconfessed mortal sin, and so her death alerted you.”
“Yeah, something did,” said the rider. “That much fits, if she died. I got a call.” His first shocked reaction had given way to cautious suspicion; he might have been letting me have the benefit of the doubt, but it was impossible for us to convey much to each other with such an audience, and he turned and kept his back to me, facing the Bearer of Indictments. “What she is now—that’s a question. But I do know I got a call.”
“Ohh yess. She was legitimately one of your charges, if only for a moment. You arrived and found her there some hours later. That she was no longer dead—ah, technically dead, is immaterial. You believed her to be dead, and so the transgressions you committed are as serious as if she actually had—”
“Bullshit,” spat the rider. “Don’t give me your hair-splitting legal crap, you devil’s advocate. If that’s all you’ve got on me, shut the fuck up and get your fat ass out of here.”
“Very well. It is true that this is a venial offense, so we will proceed to more serious matters. Item. The Hellrider displayed a total lack of restraint in reaction to insults made to this woman, inflicting a severe beating on a person not directly interfering with the performance of his duty. Interviews with witnesses point to a possible major violation of the contract, as the mortal sin of anger constitutes—”
“Oh, come on. These witnesses tell ya ol’ Rattlesnake picked the fight?” Deadman looked around at me. “You gonna back me up here, Irene?” His eyes narrowed; this was a test. “Who took the first shot?”
“Rattlesnake did,” I replied. “Twice, because he tried to hit you with the door before you’d even gotten out of the bar. And he challenged you to the fight.”
With a slanting smile, he turned back to the Bearer of Indictments. “There ya go.”
The fat man seemed undisconcerted. “We will set this item aside as well, then, and proceed to the heart of the matter.”
He began to read again. “Item. When the Hellrider brought the woman Irene to this place by way of the Road of the Dead, it was against her will, again attested to by many witnesses, and with the intention of sexual consummation. Item. He physically touched her and spoke to her in a seductive manner, attested to by a witness.” Aitch’s eavesdropping wife? Probably.
“Item. When she did not respond, he forced himself on her. Although she valiantly resisted, to the point of attempting to kill him to preserve her honor, he attacked her sexually, struck her in the face and raped her.”
The Bearer of Indictments unrolled another length of the scroll, its shape and details emerging more clearly, and I realized that it was made from a human pelt. A woman’s skin, the flayed legs sewn together to form the central seam and the groin still outlined with a patch of dark hair. My stomach roiled, an acid taste in my mouth. The foul hypocrisy of such an accusation written on such a surface!
Deadman was silent for a moment, then growled, “OK, the only thing you just proved is that your whole indictment is crap. Rape? Don’t make me laugh.”
The fat man looked up reprovingly. “Sexual contact is strictly forbidden for you, though technically, again a venial offense. But to force it on a defenseless woman is truly beyond the pale.” He looked down again at his piteous scroll. “Item. He repeated the attack—”
“Defenseless?” snorted Deadman. “A woman who can pull the trigger so quick I hadn’t even a chance to dodge?”
“Item,” the Bearer said again. “The Hellrider repeated the attack, even more violently, and has kept her captive for many hours while indulging in the satisfaction of his lusts.”
Deadman rolled his eyes with a scornful grin, looking sideways at me. “No shit. She just happened to love every second of my lustful satisfaction. That written down in your goddamn scroll?”
The fat man snarled at him, his eyes glowing with a fire similar to Deadman’s, but red in color. “Item. He spoke disrespectfully to the Bearer of Indictments—”
The rider flipped him off. “Fuck it on a stick, you fat-assed turd. This is bullshit from beginning to end. You’re accusing me of rape on hearsay? Why not ask the lady herself what she thought it was?”
“The point being, that she resisted your advances—”
“Sure, she shot me! She still wanted it! Irene’s not yer average all-American girl, you understand.” He chuckled. “Rape it wasn’t, and she’s said so to my face.”
The fat man returned to the scroll. “—And he denied the truth of the allegations made against him, in the face of all evidence to the contrary. This woman has accused you herself, and the testimony of many witnesses corroborates her.”
“Bull. She hasn’t accused me of jack-shit.”
The Bearer of Indictments unrolled another part of the scroll, exposing the distorted breasts of the flayed skin. “Herein, an account of a conversation between the alleged victim and a witness.” He indicated Aitch, who grinned.
“The witness inquired about the shots heard in the house, and asked the woman if she had angered you by shooting you. Her reply: ‘He hit me. But he was more interested in finishing what he’d started.’ The witness inquired if she meant a sexual advance on your part: ‘That’s right. It must be the whole reason he brought me here. I said no and I asked him to stop, but he didn’t. I shot him. When the wounds vanished and I realized what he was, I was petrified. He dragged me upstairs and…’ The witness expressed concern for her physical well-being: ‘Yes, thank you. I’m perfectly all right. He didn’t beat me up while he was doing it.’ The witness expressed a wish to have interfered with the attack: ‘It wasn’t your fault. I don’t think anything would have stopped him.’ A later comment by the witness: ‘But he’s treated you bad.’ The woman’s reply: ‘Yes, he has.’”
He rolled the scroll and put it under his arm. “What could be plainer?”
There was a long silence from Deadman, who stood with his back to me, his head moving slightly as if he were scanning back and forth with his eyes. His jaw compressed and he swallowed hard.
“Don’t forget the shell casings,” Aitch put in.
“Indeed.” The fat man produced an envelope, which Aitch opened. He held up two shiny brass casings—the ones that had held the bullets I’d fired through Deadman’s body. “These were taken from the victim’s firearm by the witness at the time of the conversation. A minor point, but a signal piece of physical evidence that corroborates her statement that she shot the Hellrider in an attempt to stop him from raping her.” Aitch put the casings away. “What is your answer, Undertaker?”
“Irene,” asked Deadman slowly, “did you say all that to Aitch? Did you give him that brass out’ve yer gun?”
“Yes, but—” He cut me off with a gesture. The fat man smiled and inspected his fingernails.
“OK, it’s an accusation,” said Deadman. “Could be a hell of a lot plainer, and it ain’t proven yet. So ask her.”
“Do you formally present this woman as a witness in this proceeding?”
“Yes, I do.” He met my eyes with with a level gaze. “Tell him the truth, darlin’.”
“You are not to instruct the witness,” snapped the Bearer of Indictments. Deadman put up his hands to signify compliance, and the fat man turned to me. “You are aware that this is a formal trial and that the verdict will be rendered immediately?”
“…I understand.”
“And that nothing but the truth will be acceptable? I caution you, if you cannot speak the truth, it is far better for you that you remain silent.” I felt the strange tightness in my throat and nodded, trying to swallow it away. “Very well. Have I read an accurate transcript of your statements to this man?” He indicated Aitch.
“Uh…yes.” I glared at Aitch; he quirked the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. “It’s accurate as far as what I said, but—”
“And you meant to convey that the Hellrider had sexually attacked you?”
“Well…” I glanced at Deadman, whose teeth were set and eyes directed out into the night.
“The truth, madam.”
“I…meant to convey that, yes.” I recalled calculating the benefits of getting Aitch on my side and mentally lashed myself. “But I—”
“Do your statements form a factual narrative of what happened between you and the Hellrider? Did you lie to the witness?”
“…No, I didn’t lie, but I left a lot out. Can I explain why I—”
“You will confine yourself to answering my questions, madam. Did you desire sexual intercourse with the Hellrider when he approached you with that intention?” I hesitated, and he prompted me. “Were his advances welcome to you?”
“N-no, but I changed my—”
“I caution you again to confine yourself to factual answers. Your later state of mind is not relevant to this proceeding, only the actual incident in question.”
“But—”
“I shall not warn you again, woman.” His eyes glittered red at me and my throat tightened even more. “You resisted him when he laid hands on you? To the point of shooting him?”
“Yes,” I choked, hand to my throat.
“And when he recovered from the consequent wounds, he overpowered you and carried you upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Did he strike you?”
“Yes. Only once. Not very hard.” I couldn’t form any words but these; my tongue seemed not entirely under my control. All I could speak of was the bare facts, as the fat man had demanded, and the words seemed to emerge spontaneously, unsilenceable. Deadman was nearly trembling with anger, though it might not have been directed at me.
“Did you consent to sexual intercourse at this point?”
“No.”
“Did you in fact plead with him not to rape you?”
“Yes.” I put my face in my hands.
“Did the Hellrider then proceed to have intercourse with you nonetheless?”
“Yes,” I said, shaking all over. What had I done?
“Undertaker,” said the fat man with unconcealed glee, “you have heard the woman’s statements. Do you admit their truth?”
“There’s a hell of a lot more to it than that, and you know it,” said Deadman through his teeth. “I want to cross-examine her. I’ll represent myself.”
“Very well.” The Bearer of Indictments gestured in assent.
At that moment, headlights lit the trees that concealed the house from the road. The Firebird came up the drive with Shane behind the wheel and Stephanie in the front passenger seat. They stopped behind the hearse and piled out.
Someone in the back seat kicked another person out of the car, who fell to his knees, crossing himself. It was a Catholic priest in a black Roman-collared shirt and jeans, an elderly Mexican man with a fair amount of Indian in him. The large crucifix he wore was ornate in the Spanish style.
Vince emerged behind him holding the rifle and slammed the door, then kicked the priest again for good measure, sending him sprawling in the dust.
“Right on time,” said Aitch to his wife, who approached him with a smile and kissed him. “Everything’s going just fine. Have any trouble?”
“Not really,” she said scornfully, glancing at the priest, who was moaning quietly on the ground. “My Spanish is good enough that I could lure him out of the church, and they got him stuffed into the car in no time. But I burned myself on his stupid crucifix. That is such a crock.”
“Baby get an owie?” crooned her husband.
“Uh-huh. Daddy make it better?” She protruded her tongue-tip out of her mouth with an infantile smile and held up a reddened hand.
Aitch ran his tongue over the wound, glancing meaningly up at me as he did so. “Baby’s a good girl. You guys keep the mackerel-snapper here until we need him. Don’t kill him or I’ll have your asses.”
“Got it, Aitch,” said Shane, brandishing an automatic. Vince pulled back the lever on the rifle.
I heard the priest begin to pray in a shaking voice as he huddled on hands and knees, and a prickle went over my skin as he recited the Our Father in Latin, the universal language of the traditional Catholic liturgy. “Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra…” The Bearer of Indictments hissed and backed away a few paces.
The words were so familiar that they fell into deep impressions in my mind, ones I had thought would wear away with time. They had not, and I found myself silently reciting the prayer with him. “…panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.” Automatically I crossed myself, clutching the box of cartridges under my jacket and watching the Bearer of Indictments snarl at me.
Another set of headlights lit the trees down by the road, and another car began to come up the drive. Aitch’s gaze snapped to it, and he said, “Who the hell is that?”
“Uh…I dunno,” said Shane. “Uh…I guess someone was behind us on the road all the way from town.”
“You stupid son of a bitch!” yelled Aitch. “That’s gotta be the bastard who was askin’ around about his daughter! You led him right here!” I gasped in sudden hope.
“Uh…sorry, Aitch.”
Up the drive came a black Range Rover with custom plates reading BGMOUTH2. It stopped just past the curve around the bushes, some distance behind the Firebird and almost out of the reach of the floodlights, and the driver opened the door.
A short, stocky man peered out, wearing a Western jacket and black Resistol hat, his eyes mere squints in his round face. Their gaze fell on me through his wire-rimmed glasses, and his mouth opened wide as if to cry out, but no sound came.
“Papa!” I screamed. “Papa!”
I dashed down the steps, past the startled Deadman and the others, and sprinted to meet my father. He leaped out of the driver’s seat and ran at me; we collided in the yard with open arms and he picked me up for a moment, almost sobbing.
“Honey! Oh, honey! Are you all right? Ah’m sorry Ah couldn’t find this place earlier!”
“Oh, Papa!” I clung to him and buried my face in his shirt, smelling his familiar odor of horses and gun oil, and he hugged me tightly. “Papa, I’m so glad to see you!”
“Likewise, honey. Oh, thank God and the blessed Virgin Mary—Ah prayed so hard Ah’d find you safe. Are you all right? Not hurt?”
“No, Papa. I’m fine.” I smiled joyfully into his face. “I’m OK. I told you on the phone, I only blew a tire out on the highway and—”
“Ah found the car, honey. It got towed to the nearest garage, and it’s a real mess. How on earth did you manage not to get hurt?”
“What? All it had was a flat tire! Did the tow truck bang it up?”
Papa blew out his cheeks for a moment. “The front end was smashed in, honey, and there wasn’t any windshield left. They said they had to winch it out of the ditch.”
I blinked in surprise. “A truck must have hit it after I left.”
“Maybe, but there was blood all over the steering wheel and the floor. Ah about had another heart attack when Ah saw that. You sure you didn’t get hurt? If you hadn’t left that message so Ah knew you were alive, Ah’d’ve been tearing my hair out!”
“Blood?” The Bearer of Indictments had claimed I had been killed in the accident. And he had not quite said how I had been raised to life again, if that were the case. In fact, he had evaded the question. “I…I’m not really sure about that. But I’m fine.”
“All right, if you say so.” Papa lifted my chin with one hand and carefully inspected my face. I was reminded of how the rider had looked at me in the parking lot of the Last Chance when he’d suspected I was alive rather than dead. “Honey—Ah talked to some people at the garage and bar there and Ah heard some mighty odd things. You went with some fellow named ‘Taker?”
“Yes, Papa. That’s him.” I looked around still clinging to my father and nodded at Deadman, who had come towards us and stood a few yards away. “He picked me up at the car.”
I saw Papa’s eyes go even narrower as he looked at the rider, an enormous dark figure in his black coat, his unbound hair straggling on his shoulders like stray lamp flames, bandanna over his forehead and his chest half exposed by his open shirt. “You there. Have you been taking good care of this young lady?”
“You could put it like that,” said Deadman with a mild sarcastic inflection. “Pleased to meetcha, Pop. Been hearin’ a lot about you.” Neither man put out a hand in greeting to the other.
“Likewise—that’s to say, Ah’ve heard some about you. Though Ah gather that this is a superstitious portion of the country. Well, if you’ve done right by my daughter, Ah appreciate your trouble. Honey, how’ve these people been treating you?” Papa frowned at the hearse and at the Bearer of Indictments, who stood with a slight, patient smile on his face. The family whispered together, their faces unpleasant.
“I’m fine, Papa. Really I am.”
“That isn’t what Ah asked you, honey,” said Papa in a tone I had known from earliest childhood. I felt my face flush; something about Papa’s presence always reverted me to eight years old. “You’ve been here for a couple days now, and Ah have to tell you there are some local rumors about this man, and this place, that Ah don’t like one bit.”
He glanced around the yard and at the family. “Though Ah certainly am not going to say Ah believe everything Ah hear, there is always at least a grain of truth in that kind of story.”
“Can we get on with this?” hissed Aitch.
“Ohh yess, in due course,” said the Bearer of Indictments in his eerie voice.
Papa flinched at the sound. His eyes fell on the elderly Mexican priest, who had risen to his feet but still muttered prayers in a desperate tone, and an intimation of suspicion began to enter his face. “What in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph is going on here?”
“It’s some kind of trial, Papa. I’m a witness—”
“Padre?” said my father, addressing the priest. “Can you give me an explanation of these goings-on?”
The priest burst into a torrent of mixed Spanish and English from which I caught only the words ‘demonio’ and ‘El Muerto’ many times repeated among nearly incoherent warnings to run as fast as we could. The brother cuffed him and he whimpered and fell silent.
Papa looked peeved and turned back to me. “Honey? Who are these people? Who is this ‘Taker person, other than the biggest, scruffiest-looking biker Ah’ve ever seen in my life?” He dropped his voice only slightly and Deadman pushed his tongue into one cheek and chewed his jaw back and forth for a moment. “You know Ah don’t like you to associate with that kind of fellow, and you know why.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Ah don’t know what it is about motorcycle riders, but they tend to lack a complete set of moral principles and they don't treat women well. Ah have to say, it was unwise to accept a ride from him, honey.”
Papa and Deadman exchanged chilly glances. “Though Ah know you can defend yourself, that was too trusting of you. Men are animals, and you’re so pretty, so innocent still. You’re just a child, really!” Deadman gave him a slow blink and stare with indrawn chin, obviously somewhat taken aback. “Ah hope he hasn’t made unwelcome advances to you while you’ve been here.”
“Shee-it,” said the rider in disgust.
“Uh…well…” I dropped my gaze and flushed guiltily again.
“Undertaker,” said the Bearer of Indictments, who had remained silent until now. “Do you wish to continue your cross-examination of the alleged victim?”
“Damn straight I do,” he shot back. “Let’s get this goddamn kangaroo court over with.”
“No—wait—” I gasped. “Not here!” Papa gave me a strange look. “Can you…can you wait until later? Without my—” I broke off; the fat man’s smile had become a vicious grin.
“This court is still in session,” he said. “Undertaker, in your capacity as your own representative, continue the cross-examination of the witness.”
“All right, woman.” Deadman pointed to me with an air of barely controlled impatience and anger. “You wanted it all along, didn’t ya? You let down your hair and you kept lookin’ at me. I knew you were thinkin’ just what I was thinkin’—you wanted me to take you down an’ spread your legs. Right?”
I looked at the gathering thunder in Papa’s face and at the wide-eyed priest and my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth.
“Come on, woman. Tell the man,” persisted Deadman in a harsh voice. “You like gettin’ persuaded, kind of under compulsion. I did it just the way you wanted me to, an’ you got off so many times I guess I lost count. You loved fucking me, didn’t you?”
“What is he sayin’, honey?” said Papa in a dangerous tone, his accent thickening. “This hoodlum’s done wrong to you? Is that what he said?”
“Papa…”
“Honey, he said he’s had you. Is he a liar, or did he force you? Ah know you’re a good girl—you wouldn’t sleep with some man you just met, not of your own free will.” His expression said ‘especially not a man like this’. “Is he lyin’?”
“N-no…he’s not lying...”
“No shit,” snorted Deadman. “This lady likes it any way you can think of an’ probably plenty that ain’t occurred to me yet. I had her in every hole she’s got!”
“Santa Maria!” gasped the priest.
“Oh, honey…!” Papa looked stricken to the heart. “If only Ah’d got here sooner. Ah blame myself. Ah’ve failed you again, honey. Ah didn’t keep you safe.” He drew me into his arms and patted my hair, tears in his eyes. “Ah know it’s not your fault, sweetheart. He’s abused you day and night since he got hold of you? Ah promise you, he won’t get away with this.”
“N-no…it wasn’t…I…he…” I couldn’t go on, wrapped in my father’s loving arms.
“Does this conclude your cross-examination, Undertaker?” inquired the fat man with a malicious smile.
“No, it don’t!” Deadman insisted. “Woman, talk to me. Tell the fuckin’ truth!” I looked at him with panicked eyes. “Tell him, dammit!” he shouted at my silence. “Tell him you wanted me!”
I glanced up at Papa, who seemed incredulous, and my tongue remained paralyzed. I couldn’t say it. I had said it only once in my life, and to repeat it in front of Papa and a priest—it was impossible, though the world depended on it.
By admitting my desires to my lover, I had begun the final phase of my transformation, but it had been only a few tentative steps down a steep precipice. I looked into the abyss below me, and the fear of the unknown took away all resolve, all voice, all intentions. My long-forgotten religion closed around me like an iron wall. “What the hell is the matter with you, Irene? Tell him!”
“Irene?” said Papa. “Why on earth is he callin’ you Irene, honey?”
“IRENE!” Deadman yelled. “TELL HIM YOU WANTED ME TO FUCK YOU!”

Continued...
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Deathbed