Quando corpus morietur, fac ut animae donetur, paradisi gloria.
While my body is here lying, let my soul be swiftly flying, to thy glorious paradise.




So I'm standing here in the middle of the ring.

It's the start of Wrestlemania, an event I've never had the priviledge of being apart of.

And to be honest?

I could give a flying fuck.

I've got this mic in my hand, and I'm looking at the stunned, buzzing crowd. I can just read it in their eyes, the same exact thought that screams throughout the universe.

"What the fuck is Raven doing here!?"

I'm smiling, but no one can perceive what I'm thinking, or what I'm feeling. It's kinda cool that I'm able to do that, keeping what I contemplate or what I am experiencing under wraps.

No one knows this, but me and Steve were good friends. We used to travel a lot together in WCW, and actually were on the road with one another, along with Brian. Not many people know that.

And hell, not many people remember Brian Pillman, which pisses me off beyond my fucking control. I'm sure that in about twenty or something years people might ask me, "Whose Stone Cold Steve Austin?" I'm sure I'll probably yell at them or punch them - or if I'm an old man I'll wack them with my cane.

I'm going to make sure that cane has a lot of thorns in it.

I gave him ideas for wrestling, cause he was green as hell back then in WCW, and also some promo and gimmick ideas. Fuck, did he soak up that shit like a sponge. Nowadays when I look back at that time, I'm thinking, "And back then he hated talking."

But hell, things happened, we got split, but we kept in touch. Steve was a good guy. And with all those people in the back crying for him, I know they realized the same thing.

So why the hell is Mr. "What About Me? What About Raven?" doing in the middle of the WWE ring when he should be out at NWA-TWA and doing his own shit there? Why is he here at Wrestlemania, with a mic in his hand?

Well, that's fucking simple.

I was here to say hello to Steve, give him a surprise.

He gave me the surprise, though.

Something inside is telling me that those guys in the back are having their own private solliloquies, thinking to themselves about how much fun and what bond they had with Steve. I know Steve and I didn't have that strong of a bond like Taker, or Mick, or Rocky, but we had something.

And yeah, it does fucking hurt. It'll always hurt. But guess what? I'm going to have to move on. Maybe I'm so passive because I am filled with "so much fucking angst you could make Poe cry," as Steve once said to me back on the road.

So I'm going to say what I feel, to these people here, to the people in the back, and to the world. If they've got a problem with it, they can fuck themselves.

I bring the mic to my mouth, and I let my words flow.

"I'm not here to remember, idolize or sob about Steve's death. I'm here only to state the truth. Steve was my friend. He was a great guy to hang around with. He was honest, sincere, and normal. You can't find that in people nowadays. Normality. All these people are so fucking fake, it's hard to tell what's real and what's false. Steve had none of that shit. And I'm gonna miss that about him. His ability to be normal and act like a human being when he's so high up there on cloud nine."

I sardonically smile, turning my body and my eyes around to watch their reactions. "He really is up there in the clouds now. And all I hope is that he and Brian, wherever they are, will raise as much as Hell in Heaven as they did here on Earth and open a big hole for me to fly through when it's my time to go, cause I sure as hell know God won't let me in there unless I sneak my way in."

Smirking, I'm silent for awhile, hearing the defining silence, and I love it. "See you on the other side, Steve, when the time comes," I said solemnly, and I lost my smile. "Quoth the Raven."

Throwing the mic to the ground, I just merely walk away from the ring, the crowd, the people in the back -- everything. I'm not apart of this scene. I'm apart of something else. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere. I'm Raven, and I'm living, that's all.

I saw Mick, and he was just staring at me. I smiled at him.

For some odd reason, Bret was there. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. Guess he's trying to help out Mick. Even I know that no one can help that poor guy.

Within the shadows I found the Undertaker and kane, and again I only met eyes with them. Kane smiled at me, and I faintly returned it.

I passed Jericho's locker room, and I saw him laughing his ass off. I smirked at his antics.

After his room, I glanced into Shawn's room, where he was kneeling on the floor, praying and crying. Anger seeped from his clamped mouth, as if he was trying to keep it in. I chuckled.

Soon after Shawn's room, I saw Hunter's. That group he's with -- the one with Flair and shit -- they were hovering over him like a bunch of bitches. Hunter ignored them. He gave me a look, with his blood smeared hands, and just smiled thankfully. I shrugged.

In the coridoor to the stairs of the parking lot when I passed it, I saw Goldberg there. We met eyes, passed stares, and nothing more.

Going outside of the arena, in the distance I saw Chris Benoit staring at the sky, with streams of tears down his face. I looked up and saw what he was gazing at -- the North Star. I walked to my car.

I unlocked my car, and I was ready to go inside. However, I heard the faint crying of someone. Sighing, I walked over to the opposite side of the parking lot, and there I found the cradled, sorrowful heap of the Rock.

Hmm. Well.

I walked forward, bent down and I smacked him on the face.

He snapped his head and his eyes were enraged, stained with tears and filled with sorrow and hatred. He glared at me.

I stared at him impassively. "Pull yourself together, Rocky," I merely said. "Steve isn't here--" I poked him in the chest where his heart is. "-- so he's there. Get fucking used to it."

I could feel his eyes on me, but I could give a shit. I didn't care for him, I didn't care for anybody.

I went into the car, got in, started the car and turned up the volume of the radio to some great music. I recognized the song immediately... and it's kind of ironic.

It's a song that me, Brian, and Steve used to sing sometimes in the car when we were on the road. It's a new version, kinda tuned in late so it's near the ending and it's a little addictive, but it's still the same song.

"Here I am, on the road again. There I am up on the stage. Here I go, playing the star again, there I go... turn the page."

And it's the ending that's struck me. He's gone. And all we have to do now is just turn the page of life.

Holy fuck, that's right.

He's gone, and he ain't coming back.

Fuck.

"There I go... there I go... there I go... here I go... there I go... there I go... and I'm gone."

Irony sucks.

I sped down the highway, away from the galor and extravaganza that is supposed to be Wrestlemania.

I don't think there's going to be any magic tonight.