Post by Bonnie Blue on May 6, 2017 10:45:18 GMT -5
Part One:
Through the Looking Glass
Voiceover (Bonnie Blue):
Where do I even start?
I guess, maybe, with the fact that I'm kinda dead.
Yeah, I know, shocking. I only poked every bear I could find, startin' with Oblivion, back in the day. And all them dudes in hashtag Beach Krew. Howdy, boys -- sorry, bois. Ell-oh-ell. Fuck you, I'm dead. You can't do shit to me now. Still, it kinda sucks. I was lookin' forward to squarin' off against ol' David Sanchez again. He stood me up the last time we had a date, an' then I was sad. So much focus an' effort spent preparin' for that night... an' it wasn't even nothin' special. Not a pay-per-view. Just another Overload; albeit the one right after my good friend an' tag team partner, the late lamented Alex Richards, won himself the World Title at that comp'ny I'm apparently not s'posed to name.
Then again, dead. What the fuck's Seth gonna do about it?
YOU-SEE-EYE! The house Bonnie Blue built. No, not alone, but the fact remains that I am a cornerstone of that organization, an' even if Spencer don't 'preciate loyalty, he can't deny the comp'ny wouldn't be nearly as successful without me an' the Guardians. YOU-SEE-EYE. The house that David Sanchez tried to tear down in order to rebuild in his own twisted image. Lotta that goin' around. Ditch one tyrant, pick up another in the form of Kevin Bishop. Plague after Plague; an' it's time for a vaccination.
Well, let me back up. Let's talk about how I got here, in this condition. Why I'm sorta suspended in some endless non-space. I won't go so far as to say void; it's more of a waitin' room. An apres-void, if you will. And you will.... But back to the topic at hand, which is: Bonnie Blue is dead. Deceased. Finished. An ex-parrot.
No, sorry, got carried away.
So, here's how it went down: Creeping Death stabbed me in the back with a sword. A big fuckin' sword, right 'tween the shoulderblades, an' all the way through. Pretty hardcore, right? But let's face it -- it was bound to happen sooner or later. I got a real bad habit of pickin' fights with dudes who are way outta my league.
Like David Sanchez. That's what you're all thinkin', ain't it? Bonnie Blue has never won a singles match against David Sanchez. I'm outclassed. He's so much bigger, so much stronger, so much... crueler. I've done this enough times, I know what to expect. He'll do everything in his power to hurt me, to humiliate me, to rob me of what should be a triumphant return to a DUBYA-SEE-EFF ring -- even just for a night. Because David Sanchez is a favored, if prodigal, son. An' Bonnie Blue... was sent into exile, never to be seen in the World Championship Federation again.
At least, that was the plan. An' for a while, it worked. I was successful. Everythin' I'd dreamed of was finally within reach. There were rumors, of course, that my early successes were all orchestrated by former part owner of the YOU-SEA-EYE, Jim Thuggin... for some obscure, unfathomable reason. If it was true, so what? I mean, aside from that feeling of ingrained filth that won't wash clean, no matter how hard you scrub.
Which, incidentally, is the exact same feelin' I get any time I'm in proximity with David Sanchez. Callin' him scum is an insult to scum. An' to think, I used to be afraid of the guy. Thought he had somethin', some secret ability or occult skill I could never figure out. Turns out, he's just a sneaky fuck. That's the thing he's best at. Subterfuge. Funny, though, how dyin' puts things into perspective. Sanchez is a lot less scary on this side of it all.
Clarity. That's what this is about. Death is clarity. Meanin'less attachments, old grudges, they fall away an' all you're left with is a sort of inner peace. A warmth in my chest, where I'd expected only cold; feelin' where I'd expected numb sterility. The last mercy of a dyin' mind, I reckon. Final thoughts trailin' away into nothin'. Kinda figured it would happen quicker, but what meanin' does Time have now? Might as well take advantage of the moments that remain.
So many things undone. I've left behind someone I coulda saved, if I hadn't been so damn stubborn. Maybe I shoulda realized sooner that I might be fallin' in lov-- No. Even in my final moments -- especially in my final moments -- I can't face that. Easier to look back on other things I might've done diff'rent, face up to all those regrets before the last of what defines me flutters away to nothin'.
Sanchez. Why is it you? No matter who else has come an' gone, you're always on my mind, skulkin' there in the back, somewhere. Must be that sense of somethin' left unfinished between us. An' when I came back here, it was with the intention of doin' the job that was asked of me, no more. Then I'd have happily returned to my prison, like a good girl. But I saw your comments on Twitter, an' it all just came rushin' back. I couldn't help myself. I had to say somethin'.
Because I remember that night -- the night of the Updegraff Industries Invitational Tournament -- with a hundred thousand dollars on the line. That was the first time I felt Medusa's Touch, but it damn sure wouldn't be the last. An' if that wasn't bad enough, that asshole Wentworth felt compelled to get a cheap shot of his own in. Things got weirder from there, though, when a courier sought me out in my locker room to deliver me a pocketwatch an' a briefcase full of cash. It was like some shit straight out of Batman, all them riddles an' clues....
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2353
(August 9th, 2016) -- Bonnie Blue opened up the briefcase and looked at it again, as if to reassure herself that the cash was still in it. That it hadn't been some elaborate hoax. And that note... She read it through another time and shuddered. What could Sanchez want, really? He offered something intangible to go with the hundred thousand in blood money; something as poorly defined and insubstantial as a campaign promise, but all the more tantalizing because of it. In the long run, as intriguing as the notion might be, did he actually believe he could lure Bonnie away from the Guardians? Make her turn her back on her friends? For what?
It couldn't be the money; not alone. They'd never made a secret of the fact that Jay Omega was the financier behind the Guardians, even in his extended and unexplained absence. What would someone like Bonnie Blue do with a hundred grand, anyway? Still...
Shaking her head, she closed the case and stashed it under a bench as Cameron Bankston and Alex Richards walked in -- and headed straight for the showers. Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't want to have to explain this yet. Polar would do what Polar always did. He'd take charge, shove everyone else's suggestions aside if they didn't line up with his own ideas, and then act like he'd thoroughly considered all the options if she protested. Whatever the intent behind it, the money was a gift to Bonnie, and it was up to her what she did with it.
There was a caution in the youthful blonde's step as she strode with swift purpose beneath the regularly-spaced fluorescents that whitewashed the cinder block walls of the corridor. Every thirty feet or so, the unblinking eye of a surveillance camera stared back at her in Orwellian menace. That note. Those closing words: I'll. Be. Watching. It sent a shiver up her spine; it made her feel... violated. Bonnie wondered offhandedly how many new cameras had been installed since the Sanchez administration had taken over, and more importantly, where they might be. How closely would he be watching? The sudden notion of that flat, lifeless junkie gaze taking in her most intimate moments turned her stomach.
And was she -- impossibly -- just a little bit... flattered? Flattered that a man so obviously disinterested in all but the finest things would go to so much effort over her. If she asked herself why, if she looked even superficially into what it was she had to offer that no one else could, she would understand his intentions. Bonnie knew that, at some level, and chose to remain naive. Sanchez and Polar were into this long game thing. Why couldn't she play, too? Drag it out, string him along, make him come out and say what he wanted.
Bonnie tossed the briefcase on the passenger seat as she slid behind the Ranchero's wheel. She knew what Cam would say if she told him about it. He'd start with the warnings about how dangerous Sanchez was; how a few simple words were never as simple as they seemed; as if Bonnie would fall prey to his Machiavellian maneuvering just by going to hear him out. Overprotective, that was the Polar Phantasm. Because he didn't think Bonnie was clever enough to figure things out on her own, that's what it came down to. She might be the youngest Guardian, but she'd had plenty of experience with being played -- she'd recognize it when it happened.
And Alex, well, his feelings about Sanchez were never in doubt, especially after he'd had Taylor Wright torch the Sloshed Pit -- Alex's cherished bar and secondary source of income. Granted, the arson investigator had declared it an "electrical fire," and blamed wiring a dozen years out of code; added insult to injury by fucking Richards out of the insurance payout he should have gotten, and undoubtedly on the orders of the Mayor's office. There wouldn't be any point asking his advice.
The obvious thing was to just give it back. And not even in person. A courier delivered the case, another one could damn well return it to City Hollow. She knew that was what she should do... then again, would it hurt to hang onto it for a day or so? Just to be absolutely certain she wasn't letting emotions cloud her judgment. Then Bonnie would send it back, with a note of her own: Thanks, Dave, but no thanks.
Short and sweet.
I should be insulted, Bonnie told herself, that he thinks he can buy me off so easily. My friends mean more to me than some half-insinuated promise of -- what? Fame? Fortune? I trust in Polar to guide the Guardians to that. It's not like he's going to sabotage our careers by avoiding success and turning down opportunities to advance; only a deranged narcissist would do something like that.
But above all, Sanchez had given her a puzzle, a test of her intellectual fortitude, and it was a challenge Bonnie Blue could scarcely resist. She drove on through the cool spring evening, thinking it over. There had to be something significant in the date or the time -- the Fifteenth of May at Five-Fifteen in the morning -- right? Repetition alone made the number stand out. The Daughter of Time parked her Ranchero behind a little place in Chinatown called the Drunken Dragon: home to Alex Richards and unofficial Chicago headquarters of the Guardians. Seizing the briefcase, she crept up the back stairs to a sparsely furnished room that had, until recently, served as a modest Chinese apothecary; the pungent ghosts of exotic herbs yet lingered in the stale, still air. None of it bothered Bonnie, who had grown up on sterile, recycled air. It made the place feel lived-in, almost like a home.
Dropping the case on the mattress, Bonnie sat cross-legged on her bed and yanked the Samsung Galaxy from her pocket. A quick Google search was all it really took. "15th, David Sanchez" yielded a dozen nonsense results, and one solid lead: California, the day after Valentine's day. An accident. Two fatalities. Suspicious circumstances, allegedly. And the name of a detective -- Thorn -- who had seemed quite keen on the incident. Bonnie made a mental note to get in touch with the guy first thing in the morning.
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Voiceover (Bonnie Blue):
Of course, I never did follow up on all that. I met with Sanchez a week later, on May Fifteenth, to hear what he had to say. Felt like the right thing to do. It was an awkward meetin', full of innuendo, but little actual substance.
Well, that's not entirely true. You got one right, David. Cameron Bankston was, indeed, a -- how did you put it? A frozen millstone? Yeah, things got weird with him after you disappeared. His favorite playmate gone, I s'pose, an' even his tenuous interest in this business, this passion of ours, just... sublimated, like so much frozen vapor. An' then Wentworth decided to step up to the plate in your absence, David. Polar wouldn't stand up to him. He left it to me, an' then blamed me for it when things escalated. I took care of it, in the long run. The Bankstons got custody of their child back, after Updegraff used the very system you initiated to take the boy in the first place, and I got me a one-of-a-kind collector's item. I keep Wentworth Updegraff, Junior encased in metal, as a trophy. My very own Han Solo in carbonite.
Or rather, I did.
Y'know, before I died.
Shouldn't conscious thought have ceased by now? No way there's enough electrical power still chasing its way through my brain to generate this much internal monologue. I --
Wait. That driftin' sensation -- it ain't so drifty anymore. It's more of a... falling? Oh yeah, that's definitely the sharp tug of gravity there. Does that mean I'm going to the Other Place? Have I been that bad?
Fuck! Every single nerve ending is on fire! If it ain't Hell, it's damn sure Hell-adjacent. I've never felt pain like this! And what is so damned uncomfortable under my back? Is that... stone? The pain begins to subside, making me more aware of other discomforts. There's something cold, moist, and sticky all over my chest. A tentative peek reveals a shirt so drenched in blood, I can't tell what color it might once have been. Is that all mine?
I mean, yeah. What should I expect after being skewered on an enchanted Necroblade like a fuckin' shwarma? Where are we? Still at Castle Frankenstein? Hold on. We?
Oddly, I'm beginning to feel a little better, so logic dictates this probably isn't Tartarus. But now my thoughts are leaves on the wind, scattered and hard to catch. Another peek, and I start to recognize the wild and ever-shifting scenery. The Rock of Ages. Home of the Timekeeper. Only it's not his presence I feel nearby. Familiar, all the same; dangerous, but no longer quite so threatening: John Rabid.
If I'm at the Rock, then I'm probably not actually dead. No point delaying the inevitable. Sitting up isn't easy -- my arms and legs feel proportioned all wrong, not like I'm used to -- but I manage. Standing is a mite more difficult, and I'm grateful when John reaches out to keep me from falling flat on my face. Must be all the shock. Somehow, I'm alive, whole again, and all things considered, feeling pretty good.
Of course, when he asks, all full of polite concern, I gotta say something smartass and flippant. Wouldn't be me if I didn't. Ha. Just wait until I get a look in the mirror.
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Part Two:
The Needle and the Damage Done
A sliver-white flare dropped a metallic-emerald 2017 Ford Ranchero neatly onto the deck of a restored 19th Century-era dual-stack paddlewheel steamship. Moored at a public dock on the Chicago Bay, the Guardians' auxiliary mobile headquarters had been, initially, difficult to locate; Bonnie Blue had been forced to resort to using the two-way recall beacon Tesla had installed, but never tested. When she got out of the car, the blonde found Nikola Tesla staring up at a recent addition to the Chicago skyline: the Everest Eye.
His expression as he turned to face her shifted from befuddlement to outright shock at her altered appearance. Bonnie put up a hand to forestall whatever he might say.
"I know, it takes some gettin' used to," she told him. "Real long story. Important thing is, I'm still me."
At an uncharacteristic loss for perfunctory sarcasm, Tesla managed to stammer out: "But.... how?"
Bonnie shrugged. "Fuck if I know. Still trying to figure it out. Something to do with the Rock of Ages. Like I was dead, and then I wasn't, and -- "
"Dead?! What the fuck?"
Quickly, Tesla covered his mouth, eyes wide in surprise at his own outburst. He preferred circumspection in his language, regarding it as a hallmark of intellect, and had rarely uttered so much as a minced oath. Suddenly, he found himself cursing like the proverbial sailor. The Daughter of Time raised an eyebrow, then chuckled softly.
"That was my reaction, too. Like I said, takes some gettin' used to. Problem now is how to spin this... People are gonna notice."
"That's what you're concerned about? Your image?"
Tesla was incredulous. Bonnie shook her head.
"My brand," she corrected. "D'ya know how much merchandise has my face on it? Besides, I got this huge match comin' up, an' how in the hell is David Sanchez gonna recognize me, lookin' like this? He's gonna think Bonnie Blue gave up, ran off, an' left some poor dumb bitch to take the inevitable ass-kickin' in her place! Shit..."
"Actually," Tesla began, "that could work to your advantage."
Again, the young woman gave a negative shake of her head.
"No! I want that motherfucker fired up like it was September of Twenty-Sixteen all over again! Like he's still pissed off about not gettin' that all-but-guaranteed World Title shot! I want the best David Sanchez has to offer, an' this face -- ain't gonna bring back recollections of all that bad blood 'tween us. Shit, I bet even his buddy Jack wouldn't have a clue... Holy fuck, Nick -- you're right!"
He nodded his agreement.
"Of course I am. I'm always right," he told her, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"I mean about this new look bein' an advantage. I can do a little investigation all incognito, an' won't nobody be any the wiser!"
The young woman impulsively threw her arms around Tesla's neck and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks, Nick! You're the best!"
Nikola Tesla's cheeks flushed, but he maintained his composure. Taking her by the shoulders, he held her at arm's length, and looked deeply into her azure eyes.
"Bonnie, whatever you've got in mind -- "
"Don't worry," she assured him, pulling free of his grip. "It's just a little recon. I got this."
First, though, she needed a shower and fresh clothes. Three weeks in a monster-infested wasteland tended to have that effect. She spent a little too long under the steaming water; lingering over the sensation of rich lather on freshly-minted skin, and reveling in the often-overlooked luxury of shampoo as she massaged it through hair a shade darker than it had previously been. As she stepped out of the shower and wiped clean a vapor-fogged mirror, Bonnie Blue took the opportunity to examine her new form with a critical eye: Her body was slimmer, with slightly bony hips and a less prominent chest.
Might throw my balance off, she thought. Better make some time to hit the gym so I'm not an uncoordinated mess at Aftermath.
Bonnie was intrigued by her face; it wasn't as radically different, on closer inspection, as it had first seemed. Different enough to be a little jarring at first, that was all. Sharply defined brows and high cheekbones couldn't hide the optimistic youthfulness that yet lingered, though innocence was lost somewhere in eyes as blue as the deep sea. Laser focus and determination replaced the haunted aspect that had persisted since Alex Richards' death. All in all, Bonnie felt, this new look was more her -- now -- than the old.
Which ain't to say I won't miss it, a little. I hope Remi still likes --
She broke off that line of thought before it could go further, and shook her head as if to dispel it from her mind. Bonnie couldn't afford the distraction. Too much attention on him had already cost her a number of matches and her Intercontinental Title. With what she had in mind, the Daughter of Time would need all her wits about her. Altering timelines was a tricky proposition under the best of circumstances -- and these would be anything but ideal. Wrapped in a thick layer of Egyptian cotton, Bonnie Blue hesitated in front of the statue she kept in her bedroom.
"Check this out, 'Worthless," she told him. "I finally got this match with David Sanchez -- more'n half a year too late, an' I had to cross an entire universe to do it -- but I got it all the same. I mean, it wasn't as hard as it sounds. Wasn't ever a matter of not bein' able to come back to this side whenever I wanted. Just a matter of wantin' to... but when ya become warden of your own prison, well..."
Bonnie chuckled softly.
"Maybe that was the idea all along. Not that it matters now. I'm back, even if it's just for Aftermath. For Sanchez. An' if I don't intend to fall victim to that damn choke he used to submit Polar, or eat another Yakuza kick, I'm gonna have to play a little... dirty.
"Seriously, man. He finally did it -- he finally turned Chicago into his own little dictatorship; complete with citywide, round-the-clock, twenty-four hour surveillance. Built himself the biggest ivory tower to date, this goddamn skyscraper that gives Willis Tower penis envy, he calls the Eye. An' he perches up there on the zillionth floor, imaginin' himself some untouchable God-King, surrounded by sycophants an' cronies like this Steven Singh and Ethan King. Donald Trump probably jerks off to David's particular brand of tyranny, cryin' 'cause he wishes he could do the same.
"I asked myself, 'Worthless, where I could hit Sanchez that would really hurt. I know he's got a beryllium jock or some shit, so a low blow is way out of the question. No, I gotta hit him where it counts. I have to resort to measures that are figuratively below the belt. What I need to do, 'Worthless, is take away that hate-filled edge; that infernal flame in his heart, the thing that would make him trade his ragged, weary soul to some scavenger. I can hurt him best with that weapon least suspected: hope."
In haste now that her mind was made up, Bonnie slipped into a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, then laced up her Doc Marten's and hurried out once more, leaving the carbonite-encased form of Wentworth Updegraff, Jr. to stare after her in apparent dismay.
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Seven Minutes to Midnight
I can make it, thought Bonnie Blue, racing down a trans-temporal expressway toward a headlong collision with that night. I can save them... all I gotta do is get there before he does. Block the road. Call the cops and report an impaired driver. Intercept him, if I gotta.
She raised an arm against the sudden glare as she passed through the dimensional barrier into reality, somewhere in California, and continued on along a two-lane blacktop road. A glance at the dashboard instrument panel confirmed the date -- February Fifteenth, Twenty-Sixteen -- for about eight more minutes, according to the clock. That gave her just under sixty seconds to execute her plan. Or it would have, if she hadn't been blinded by high beams from a car coming the other way. Bonnie swerved to avoid it, just as the other driver leaned on his horn and passed her by a hair's breadth, then vanished down the road.
Wait... was that the car? she wondered once she'd recovered from the close call.
The question seemed to resolve itself seconds later with the squeal of overwrought brakes, followed by the reverbrating crash of impacting metal and glass. A long, drawn-out blare from the car's horn echoed through the clear, chill night. Bonnie Blue found a spot to turn the Ranchero around, and sped toward the scene of the accident. Upon arrival, however, she couldn't be completely certain whether it was the car that had just passed her; all she'd actually seen had been the headlights. She looked at the clock: twenty-three, fifty-three exactly.
Bonnie pulled off into a patch of gravel across the street, shut off the engine, and got out of the car. With slow, measured strides, she walked toward the shattered car and knelt down to take a look. There was movement from the male figure behind the wheel, but the two passengers -- a woman and a little boy -- were beyond help already. Blindly, the man behind the wheel waved a hand, trying to signal help. She avoided contact as the stared into the face of a man she'd hated for so long, trying to summon any kind of sympathy or compassion for him. Perhaps the kindest thing to do now would be to kill him. It wouldn't make big ripples in history; at least no bigger than the ones caused by Sanchez inexplicably being Mayor of Chicago.
The Daughter of Time hesitated while she weighed the options. She could simply walk away now, leave this whole mess, and not even bother to call for an ambulance. It could be hours before anyone passed this way again and saw the wreck; by then, maybe the problem would have taken care of itself -- and Bonnie's hands would be clean. More or less, anyway.
Alternatively, it wouldn't be hard to put an end to him now, before he could rise to become the monster it seemed Fate wanted him to be. An accident like that might have snapped his neck, after all; or perhaps the seatbelt might have asphyxih8ed him. One corner of Bonnie's mouth lifted in appreciation of the justice in that. For that matter, there were jagged pieces of steel laying around -- who was to say one wouldn't have flown straight through the busted windshield to impale him square through the heart?
She could do it now, and nobody would be any the wiser. Everyone he'd taken advantage of; everyone he'd submitted to the harsh, cruel experiments of the psychotic Dr. Josef Danko; all the disadvantaged he'd had rounded up and murdered by the hundreds; thousands of other lives directly or indirectly affected by his insane policies... Killing this man, here and now, would make her a hero -- even if no one ever knew about it.
But... could I? Do I have it in me to end a man's life in cold blood, even if that man is David Sanchez?
...Do I have the right to?
What happens to the Guardians without him? What fate awaits Chicago?
...Is that a thread I dare to pull?
My own experiences with Sanchez define me as much as any other adversary, even if he never regarded me as an equal. Would I be who I am without the lessons learned from matching wit and skill against him?
...Is that worth the lives he's ruined?
Perhaps. Only Time will tell.
Bonnie decided she couldn't do it, after all. Part of it, she knew, was because she wanted that fight so badly; needed it, to prove to herself -- and to everyone in the Wrestling Championship Federation who had ever doubted her -- that not only was she heir to Johnny Reb's legacy, but capable of surpassing it. Part of it, too, was that desire for a vengeance she couldn't exact for the things he hadn't yet done. Maybe... maybe she could put him on another path. Maybe none of this would be necessary.
Yes! That's the answer! I shouldn't have tried to be so direct in preventing this. I can try a subtler approach...
Quickly, Bonnie dialed 9-1-1. Then the young woman leaned in close to the figure in the driver's seat, speaking to him in low, soothing tones.
"Don't worry, David. Help is on the way. I wish I didn't know all the terrible things you're gonna do in the days to come. Made it so much harder to do the right thing. 'Tween you an' me, Dave, Bonnie Blue ain't no hero... but if I keep tryin', maybe one day I will be. An' maybe that day is today."
Without knowing whether he heard, nor caring how much of that he understood, Bonnie Blue stalked back to her Ranchero and disappeared just as the first red and blue flashers came into view.
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February 15, 2016
Dear Samantha --
You don't know me, but I'm an associate of your husband's, in a manner of speaking. He and I will have worked together on a number of occasions -- by which, of course, I mean that I am also a professional wrestler, currently under contract to David's previous employer: Wrestling Championship Federation. And since he's so very fond of written correspondence, I thought I'd try my hand at it.
It is with the utmost urgency that I feel compelled to contact you. Under any other circumstances, I would leave you in peace, but Sam -- it's imperative that you listen to me -- you and your son are in danger. And that danger is in the form of your husband. You have to know that the man is a ticking timebomb. It's not just the drugs. It's not just the erratic, impulsive behavior. It isn't the cold, cruel heart that beats in his chest. Not just.
All of those things combine to make this self-destructive, human Molotov cocktail. I've seen it before. The fuse is set, and the only thing it needs is a light. You live with him, Sam; you must see it, too. If not for your own sake, then for Kayden's, you should to get your husband the help he so desperately needs. Today, before something happens.
Listen, Sam, I know that David loves you -- more than you could ever guess -- and you must love him just as much to live with what he puts you through. Without you and Kayden, David has no hope. The man he becomes in just a few months' time is the monster you had always feared. Unstable. Power-hungry. Egomaniacal. Despotic. Bearing in mind, Samantha, that those are the kindest of the words used to describe him. He will rise from the ashes of the fire in which he consumes himself like some drug-addled dark phoenix; rise again to lay waste to an entire city and to rule over a small, upstart wrestling promotion with a fist of iron.
You may ask what it is that sets off this madness, but you won't like the answer. I owe it to you to tell you anyway. When a man like David Sanchez loses the only love he's ever known, that is the end result. There is an accident, tonight, at seven minutes to midnight. I was there; I thought about killing him to prevent the atrocities he would visit on tens of thousands of people. But I realized there was a better way. I realized I could warn you myself, and this accident won't ever happen. He'll still be a bastard, but I can live with that.
I get how weird this must sound, Sam. You probably don't believe a word of this -- I wouldn't, either. Asking you to trust me seems pointless, so I'll ask, instead, that you consider the possibility. Would it hurt to stay in, just for tonight? Order some takeout, queue up Netflix, spend a night at home pretending to be a family. Sure, Dave will probably excuse himself to the bathroom to shoot up at regular intervals. Just act like it isn't happening. You've been doing that for years already, what's one more night?
It's not just the lives of yourself and your son at stake. It's not about the tens of thousands of Chicagoans who will suffer at your husband's directives. It's you, alone, who can give David the strength of will to fight his demons. Save him, Samantha, before it's too late.
-- B. B.
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The Daughter of Time folded the letter into thirds and taped it to the front door of the Sanchez residence, then hurried back to her car. She set a course for the present, then changed her mind. Why not take a little peek ahead, just to see if this crazy gamble had even worked? Instead of 2017, she input 2021; five years from this point should be enough to judge the effects of her actions.
Reality dissolved around the Ranchero, then re-formed itself seconds later. Bonnie cruised through the neighborhood, noticing the differences. Most of the lawns were overgrown, homes in poor repair, and there were a dozen realtors' signs lining either side of the street. For what had previously been an upscale neighborhood, things had certainly gone downhill. As she drove through the California suburb, Bonnie realized that the same decay touched everything, and she found herself wondering where all the people were.
A droning whirr overhead alerted the young woman, and she looked through the windshield to discover an unmanned aircraft hovering above the Ranchero, observing through the lens of its onboard camera. Without warning, it zipped off again, headed in the direction of Los Angeles.
Damn. That probably ain't good.
Bonnie threw the Ranchero in gear and headed for the only place she could think of that might be relatively safe. A ribbon of light stretched before her as she shoved a Chicago tape into the 8-track player and hit the accelerator. The road vanished moments later, dropping her just inside a perimeter wall that surrounded a wide plaza that was dominated by a towering skyscraper. Here and there, people wearing crisp suits and austere faces hurried across the plaza; looking neither left nor right, they evinced no curiosity at the unexpected arrival of the vehicle. Exiting the car, the Daughter of Time craned her neck back to look up at the imposing shape of the Everest Eye.
This can't be right. I changed things, didn't I?
She dug her phone out of her pocket and searched "Sanchez, Samantha."
First Lady? Bonnie wondered. Of what?
The all-too-familiar sound of dozens of rifles being readied for action, the distinctive click as the safety catch was thumbed into position, brought Bonnie's attention to the present. She glanced up from her phone to find herself encircled by an entire squad of officers in riot gear, guns pointed straight at her heart. Inwardly, the young woman debated the wisdom of making an escape; she could do it -- simply freeze time long enough to get back in the car and just leave -- but she would leave with her growing list of questions entirely unanswered. And so, against her better judgment, Bonnie Blue raised her hands in surrender.
Roughly, they cuffed her hands behind her and ushered the pretty young blonde inside the building; into an express elevator and down, down through floor after floor; along a series of corridors, and out into a wide space dominated by a round desk, all of it in sterile white. Bonnie was searched, printed, photographed, and scanned.
"Where's your chip?" asked one of the cops.
"What chip?" Bonnie asked.
"Your identification. Every citizen has a microchip. Right there."
He touched a spot on the back of his crew-cut head, where a tiny lump hinted at something implanted beneath the skin. Bonnie frowned in puzzlement.
"I, uh... I've been out of town," she told the officer.
"Resistance, huh? Figures."
His fingers tapped away at the tablet in his hands, filling in information about the girl who had mysteriously bypassed every security measure the United States Secret Service had to offer and popped up inside the confines of the new capital.
"No, I mean it. I ain't got a clue what's goin' on. I been away..."
"Uh-huh," he replied in the disinterested tone of someone who's heard this song before.
Bonnie submitted to a cheek swab for a DNA scan, and watched in alarm as the computer tried to simultaneously identify her as both Johnny Reb and Bonnie Blue. She didn't like the wicked smile that spread across the man's face, either.
"Well, well, well... must be my lucky day. The President is going to be real interested in you, Miss Blue."
Oh, she thought. Shit.
An hour later found the young woman pacing within a twenty foot by twenty foot holding cell, dressed in nothing but a white coverall and a vinyl bracelet with a number printed on it: 2353. There was a Judas gate in the iron door, which slid open. Bonnie stopped pacing and looked over curiously. It was a familiar voice that spoke to her in a hushed, urgent tone.
"Bonnie!" called Nikola Tesla. "Come here! I haven't long, but I must speak with you!"
Without hesitation, she crossed to the door and knelt down.
"Nick? What's up? How did you -- ?" she began, before he cut her off.
"You have questions, I know, and I will answer them as I can."
He licked his lips and nervously glanced around, checking to see if anyone were coming.
"Ok," Bonnie said, "so I saved them, right? I Googled her and it said she was the First Lady. First Lady of what?"
"The United States," Tesla told her. "David Sanchez is the President. The first thing he did once he was sworn in was to move the capital to Chicago -- right here in the Eye -- and then he had Washington, D.C. razed to the ground. Overnight."
"Wait -- what? Sanchez can't be president! He wasn't born here. There are laws...."
"Laws can be amended. And they were. The Trump administration passed a Constitutional amendment allowing naturalized citizens to run for the highest office. When the Twenty-Twenty election came around, it was David Sanchez running against Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the fix was in as soon as the candidates were chosen. Zurich will have its way, and the Rothschilds put their support behind Sanchez."
"Um... ok. What about the Eye? I mean, if the accident never happened -- "
Tesla snorted derisively.
"Did you honestly think you could change the nature of the beast? He'll always be that same grasping tyrant, no matter what."
"Why didn't the Guardians stop him?" she asked.
"Without you? You disappeared, and Andre Holmes lost his direction. There were no Guardians after that. And once Sanchez took office, he...." Tesla trailed off, shaking his head as if the tale were to tragic to continue.
"He what?" Bonnie demanded.
"He... he finished the job the Society had begun. The Sanchez administration commissioned a high-security prison to be built in geosynchronous orbit -- took a little over a month, using the same techniques that went into erecting the Eye. The Society was absorbed into the Department of Homeland Security and renamed for public relations purposes to something innocuous: Metahuman Services. Makes it sound like welfare, so nobody probes too deeply. They've been systematically rounding up the ones who won't submit to registration and shipping them off to the space prison."
"Everybody?"
The scientist nodded.
"Polar? Nightmare?"
"Missing in action, I'm afraid."
"Pantheon?"
"Firing squad for most of them. Crow got the Osiris treatment. A few vanished without a trace, but rumors aren't in their favor."
"What about Andre? What happened to him?"
"He's a special case. For obvious reasons, they couldn't risk trying to transfer him to the orbiting facility. So Sanchez keeps him in the Sanctuary."
The hopeful expression on Bonnie's face collapsed at the sound of that word. She remembered when they had found it, the secret prison-slash-laboratory beneath City Hollow. She remembered the haunted looks in the eyes of the inmates, the ones who were still alive. Most of them -- the lucky ones -- had been gassed to death, but a few had hung on, dying instead of slow starvation. Nurses and orderlies, too. Anyone who had known about the project, in essence, except for one man whose name had been on the list: Dr. Danko, Josef. Alex, Andre, and Bonnie had searched, but found no sign of the man's body. They had to assume he'd escaped. Bonnie hadn't had the stomach for what she knew needed to be done; she had fled the premises, leaving Andre Holmes to send those poor remaining souls to whatever eternity awaited them.
"Where's Andre? I need to see him!"
Tesla shook his head, his face full of sorrow.
"No. He won't recognize you, Bonnie. There's a madness in him, a madness formed when the Yakuza had him and unleashed in full the day you vanished and never returned. He thought the Dethwar had taken you. I chose not to correct him."
There was something in Tesla's tone that she noticed -- or had it been there all along? A hint of accusation, as if she had abandoned her friends on purpose.
"But I was only trying to -- "
"I know what you were trying to do, Bonnie. But it only made things so much worse. You should have left it alone."
"Wait, I don't understand something," she said. "What are you doing here? This is the highest security in the whole world, and you're right in the middle of it -- with the freedom to go wherever you like. Which means...."
"Yes. I work here. Head of research and development. It wasn't as if I had much choice in the matter. The alternative was to spend the rest of my days in that space gulag with the metahumans."
Bonnie fell silent, trying to process that.
"I don't get it. There was no accident, I saved David's family, he never should have developed political interests."
With a sigh, the scientist shook his head.
"Not that simple, I'm afraid. During the Mexico Incident, Samantha Sanchez was approached by an entity known as the Jackal. The creature appealed not to her sense of pride or a desire for power, but to her maternal instinct. With all the upheaval in the wake of 1he wav3, it wasn't hard to convince her that the best way to protect her son would be to do so from the Oval Office, as the First Lady. When the pact was made, the path was cleared for David Sanchez to run -- "
"I thought you said the Rothschilds did it," Bonnie interrupted.
"Do you imagine that such a creature would have so paltry a resource as a suburban housewife alone? The Rothschilds, George Soros, the Rockefellers, and now the First Lady of the United States."
"That wasn't s'posed to happen, either. I fucked up pretty bad."
"You think?" Tesla shot back. Then he sighed. "Look, I know you only had the best of intentions, but preventing that accident may be the worst thing you could possibly have done."
Mutely, feeling like she'd been punched in the chest, the young woman nodded her agreement.
"It's all right, though," Tesla said. "I have a plan."
"I knew ya would!" Bonnie told him, beaming.
"A little risky, but worth it. In just a few minutes, the President will come down here to speak with you in person. He never did forgive you for not showing up at Aftermath. I don't imagine what he has in mind will be pleasant, but you won't have to endure for long."
"Endure... hang on, Nick, what're ya gettin' at?"
"I have been... augmenting myself, a little at a time, with the technologies we've been developing. Some of the power sources have been designated as unstable, but I've found uses for them. When he comes, he'll expect me to bear witness, since we were friends. An object lesson in resistance, and the futility thereof, supposedly. At which point... BOOM!"
Tesla gave her a mad, lopsided grin.
"Whoa! Nick, you're not thinking straight! There's no need for that!"
"Oh, I'm afraid there is. It's the only shot I'm going to get. If it fails..."
"But Nick," Bonnie pleaded, "ya gotta think about this. I'm here now. All I need is for you to spring me, an' I'll put it all right again."
He shook his head sadly.
"I'm afraid your powers won't work down here, or anywhere in this building. The whole place is wired with inhibitors."
"Then shut the power down! Just long enough for me to escape!"
The scientist frowned, trying to weigh his options. He had already committed to his reckless, suicidal plan -- but he didn't really want to do it. It was a last resort, a necessity borne of desperation, and if she could give him a way out.... Then again, it was possible that even if he could take the power offline, the Daughter of Time might still fail in her efforts to escape. There were far too many variables to consider with any accuracy. Emotion, however, made up his mind for him, and he finally acceded.
"All right. I'll shut it down. The instant the lights go off, you need to disappear. Get in your car, go back, undo whatever it was you did."
"Thank you," Bonnie said quietly as he closed the Judas gate and hurried away.
================================================
Part Three:
Even Shadows Have Shadows
True to his word, Nikola Tesla had shut down the power in the Eye, giving Bonnie about three minutes before the system rebooted and kicked the inhibitors back on. Three was more than she needed -- easily enough to dash from the cell, grab her personal effects, and teleport herself back outside. As soon as she was in the car, she and the Ranchero vanished from sight.
Now, Bonnie Blue rolled down the same stretch of road in California, on that same, fateful February night in Two-Thousand Sixteen. She recognized the distinctive flare of her previous arrival, and gunned the engine, flashing her brights as she went by. The other Ranchero nearly lost control as she zoomed on past in a streak of red taillights. Bonnie heard the screech of tires on pavement as her earlier self put the brakes on, but she had no further time to think about it when an oncoming vehicle swerved into her lane. Thinking fast, she shifted the Ranchero into transtemporal space, and the oncoming car passed through the spot recently occupied by the emerald-green Ford.
Dropping back into realspace, Bonnie parked in the gravel at the side of the road and averted her gaze from the accident scene. She didn't need to watch it play out. As soon as the earlier version parked, too, Bonnie walked out to join her.
"Don't say nothin', just listen," Bonnie told her earlier self. "I messed up tryin' to prevent this. But I have another idea. Take my hand."
Without hesitation, the two Bonnies joined hands; there was a brief blurring of the pair as two timelines converged; and all at once, there was only one. Except she couldn't quite recall what had just happened. She was getting out of her car to check on the accident scene, when she'd felt ...odd, just for a moment. And hadn't there been another car parked right in front of her?
Then again, recovering from a violent death and an unexpected resurrection -- or regeneration, she supposed -- was bound to have some unusual side effects. Bonnie shrugged it off and made her way to the wrecked car. It occurred to her, as she stood there, contemplating murder for the second time, that she could go back even earlier in an effort to prevent the accident in the first place. But that notion set off a deep sense of foreboding somewhere in her mind, and she dismissed it. Perhaps there was no way to avoid this scenario; lest it lead to some outcome far worse than she could envision. At last, she dialed 9-1-1 and knelt down beside the driver.
"Don't worry, David. Help is on the way. I wish I didn't know all the terrible things you're gonna do in the days to come. Made it so much harder to do the right thing. 'Tween you an' me, Dave, Bonnie Blue ain't no hero... but if I keep tryin', maybe one day I will be. An' maybe that day is today."
Maybe, she thought, one day is all I need. I could give him that, one final day with them. One last chance to say all the things left unsaid...
The wail of a siren and a hazy flashing halo of red and blue in the night sky were Bonnie's cues to leave. With a vague sense of defeat, the Daughter of Time got back in her car and headed home.
================================================
A plain black backdrop bearing the WCF logo in enormous lime-green letters fills the view.
Before it, a feminine figure is perched on a wood and canvas director's chair, obscured in shadow. Her voice, though just appreciably deeper, maintains its familiar cadence and manner.
Bonnie Blue
Hello, David.
I think we can forgo the formalities, don't you?
I'll admit, I'm... a little nervous.
It's been such a long time, an' I wanna make sure I say the right things; the things I been savin' up for months an' months. Ever since ya bailed on our last match back in September.
Y'know, ever'body thought it was 'cause you was afraid of reprisals from the Guardians after what ya done when Alex Richards won the World Title off old Howie.
The Daughter of Time shakes her head.
Bonnie Blue
We knew better, though: Alex, Andre an'me.
It wasn't fear that kept you outta the ring that night; you ain't got the sense to be afraid of little ol' Bonnie.
Watchin' Alex Richards win that World Title match, take the opportunity that shoulda been yours, that was the last straw.
That was the moment that broke you.
You walked away from my company, a beaten dog with your tail between your legs.
The deep shadows surrounding the young woman lighten just slightly; just enough to begin to discern vague features.
Bonnie Blue
But look at you now, Mister Bigshot Mayor all over again, only much more elaborate this time around. Got control of all the media in the city, built yourself a dick compensator of such epic proportion that I begin to wonder if you've even got the requisite equipment to call yourself a man... congratulations, I guess? You're really moving up in the world.
Y'know, for a guy who ain't wearin' gold. Who ain't challengin' for a title -- at all. Yeah, you're doin' great, for a guy who doesn't have World Title aspirations. Who had to beg me to face him at Aftermath because nobody else would play with him.
Let me set the record straight, Dave. This match... it's a pity fuck.
Don't think that means I ain't gonna do my damnedest to enjoy it, though.
A little more illumination reveals full, pink lips, half-raised in a smirk.
Bonnie Blue
See, David, this thing between us ain't got shit to do with your insane bid for global domination. It's goddamn personal, 'cause you didn't never think I was worth your time in that ring. What was it you said once, 'bout my daddy's legacy? Somethin' to the effect of "watchin' his legacy bein' dragged through the dirt"? An' how I'm a "cheap imitation in a prettier package"? Mmhmm. We'll see about that. But what I found most interestin', regardin' that partic'lar line, was the wordin' ya used next; that he was "watchin' through the gaps between his fingers like one would watch a car crash."
Now, was that an ironic slip of the tongue, Dave? All things considered, I reckon it'd be understandable. An' I did watch, y'know. It was real dark out there, though. Never did see quite how it all happened. Coulda been an accident. Maybe you swerved to miss a ja-- coyote crossin' the road. On the other hand, it's probably not easy to steer while you're tyin' off and tryin' to find a vein you ain't collapsed yet, is it?
Then again...
The young woman's chuckle is soft, but filled with derision.
Bonnie Blue
Then again, there's things ya gotta ask yourself about that night, David. Is it possible that, maybe, that accident wasn't no accident at all? Guy like you, a family can get a little burdensome. Musta really hurt, to look into little Kayden's eyes every day; see the disappointment an' the admiration in equal measure -- an' utterly certain, all the while, that you deserve neither. Poor kid. With you for a father, I can't imagine he ever had much of a chance in the first place. You knew it then, too, didn't ya? Probably figured you were doin' 'em both a favor, as well as y'self.
Thing is, Dave, you're gonna have to come clean -- I know, difficult concept for you -- sooner or later. You can't hide in that Oxycontin haze the rest of your life. Eventually, you're gonna have to face up to it, answer for all the things you've done. By all means, play up the widower thing for the sympathy. I'm sure that's great political currency, and let's face it, you are pitiable. But let me ask you this: where were you, that last Valentine's Day? Did you spend it with her?
If I could give you back that day, would you take it?
Isn't that what the payoff was about? Downpayment on services to be rendered? A little trip back through Time, give you the chance to stop yourself from making the worst mistake of your life? I've already walked that road, David. It doesn't make a difference. Won't make you a better person, nor even a happier one. You'll still be the same petty, vindictive smackhead, an' don't even suppose your beloved Samantha gets off any better in the end. By the time you seize ultimate power, she's barely a shadow of her former self -- I think she was ashamed of what you had become, moreso because her part in it made her as culpable as you were. And the boy? You'd want to know, of course. There were... issues. He was irrational, prone to violent outbursts, and no amount of counseling helped. Eventually, you had him sent to the Sanctuary; though, of course, all the news outlets said he was studying abroad.
So, in the end, you really did do them a favor that night. Whether it was an accident, or whether you took a more active hand in matters, the fact remains -- your wife and kid are better off six feet under than anywhere near you.
I wish I felt worse about sayin' that.
A shrug. Further illuminated, the Time Witch fixes the camera with a steely-eyed glare.
Bonnie Blue
Everyone paints you as this enormous talent -- an' I can't deny that y'are -- but why is it your only DUBYA-SEE-EFF title run is a belt that no longer has validity or meanin'? Your dual run in my promotion, with the Risin' Stars an' IC belt, was lackluster at best. In short, your title reigns have been paltry an' uninspirin'. Whereas I -- I went on to claim that Intercontinental belt from Wentworth Updegraff, Junior to become the first woman in the comp'ny to hold dual championships; defended both my belts with vigor; an' I hold the record for most combined days as champion. But I didn't stop there, David. After I lost that Intercontinental strap to Stevie Corah, he had the poor grace to rub it in, an' that pissed me off a little bit. So what I did was... first I got in his head, which really ain't as difficult as it sounds, an' made him challenge me to a rematch. He told me to pick a stipulation, an' I wanted to make this one really mean somethin' -- so I chose a South London Street Fight. I wanted to beat this motherfucker where he was strongest.
An' I did. We pounded the livin' shit outta each other, we pushed each other to the very limit, an' let me tell ya somethin', David -- I loved every minute of it. I never felt more powerful in my life than when I had Corah at my mercy; when I dropped the hammer an' finally put him down for the three count. It was damn near orgasmic. That's how I took my Intercontinental title back -- bathed in fucking blood.
Now... now I'm starin' down both barrels of a loaded Kevin Bishop. Wait. That didn't sound right at all. Let met back up.
David, what is it with you? You're supposed to be this big, bad, unbeatable ass-kickin' machine, yet you avoid gold like... well, like the Plague. Yes, you had your brief, dull moments beneath an occluded sun, but how long has it been since you've had a real chance at anything? It's almost like you're afraid of success. Afraid to step from the shadows and take your place among the stars. Because every time anybody even whispers of a potential world title shot, something in you shrinks away from it, like maybe you know you aren't quite good enough.
Me, on the other hand? Well, you see, I have that World Title shot now. Over there. I paid my dues, week after week; month after month. I was a dual reigning champion at a time when the company needed a bright young superstar at the forefront. The Guardians gave Spencer not one, but three champions. I took Spencer Adams' side in Civil War, and it should have been my turn then, but he brought in Kevin Bishop as a ringer. Let me to the hard work, then stood by while I took the pinfall, just to clear his path to the World Title. Because he knew -- as I proved later -- there was no way Kevin Bishop could get a singles win over Bonnie Blue. I worked for what I wanted, I proved myself over an' over, until Spencer couldn't ignore me or the fans anymore. An' now I'll be facin' Kevin Bishop for the strap at Lazarus.
That's what perseverance gets ya. Fortitude. Somethin' you're severely lackin'. Why else d'ya feel a need to always surround yourself with underlings an' lackeys? It's 'cause you can't stand on your own. That's why the first thing you did on returnin' to the Dub was to court Jared Holmes; flirted with Pantheon, let 'em stick the tip in, but you were afraid to go all the way. So you formed Syndicate Two-Point-Oh: also known as Everest. You need the Ethan Kings an' Steven Singhs of the world to support you, to carry your pathetic ass, to make you look like the brutal, vicious monster you make yourself out to be. But you know, behind your back, out of earshot an' away from the cameras, they whisper to one another of the pitiful state of their God-King. They speculate about how much longer you can hold out against the pounding, crashing waves of psychosis in that heroin-addled mind of yours. They bide their time, David, and they plot. Who are you to wield such power? Why couldn't one of them -- both of them -- do it better? It's not like there's a dearth of big-picture guys with nigh-infinite resources. And I wouldn't expect much loyalty out of your.... silent partner.
Wait, hang on. That ain't the point, neither.
She hesitates, gathering her thoughts.
Bonnie Blue
The point, Dave, is that -- in any universe, any timeline -- you are, an' always will be, a complete an' utter piece of shit. I mean, you're the same guy who had Erin Fausse sucking your dick before your wife was even cold, because you needed the goddamn validation. There's another thing Kevin Bishop has now that you don't. He doesn't seem to mind your sloppy seconds; I guess he thinks it's an honor to be compared to you. Plague versus Plague.
How sad is that? A world champion at one comp'ny, lookin' up to a man who never got within a whisper of the very title he now holds; lookin' up to a man who's afraid to return to the ring in that comp'ny, an' makes me come runnin' across a whole universe just to bring closure to what we left unfinished. I mean, technically, it wasn't you I came back for, David. I came because the Ripper called, an' that is not somethin' anybody in their right mind ignores. You... you're the reward for my efforts.
You're my chance to prove that I belong in a Wrestlin' Championship Federation ring as much as my father ever did. My opportunity to prove wrong someone like, for instance, the SixGod, when he says that I choke at big matches. I did. Yes. Past-tense. Did.
No more.
David, you're lookin' at a whole new Bonnie Blue -- an' I ain't just talkin' about this, um... most extreme of makeovers. The shit I've been through since you went skulkin' away from my comp'ny, you can't even imagine. It's down to just me an' Andre now; two Guardians against the world. Against the new world order of Kevin Bishop's Brotherhood. Against a phantom menace that spans the globe and remains ever a step ahead. Almost makes me long for the old Syndicate days.
At least in those days, you pushed me, made me better than any of the Guardians could. Because with you, I didn't have to hold back, an' I knew you damn sure wouldn't hold back on me. Now, we're gonna do this one more time -- the duel of the Fates -- only the outcome ain't a foregone conclusion. Not this time.
Oh, I know what you're expectin', David. You think I'm gonna run my mouth an' fail to back it up once that bell rings. You think I'm gonna allow myself to be strictly bound by the rules, an' any other night, I probably would. But for you, David, I'm makin' the exception. Ain't nothin' on the line this Sunday night but pride. If ya think the possibility of a disqualification is gonna stop me, make me think twice, well, sugar... think again. You have no idea how far I'm willin' to go. I faced down a man twice my size an' three times as mean, in a match tailor-made for him; faced him an' beat him at his own game. He was never the same after that, was Stevie. Somethin' in him broke that night -- an' I'm the one who broke it. Because he couldn't imagine a little piece of fluff like Bonnie Blue could stand beneath his most determined assault, let alone give back equal an' better. I shattered the thing he couldn't succeed without: his pride. I took the Brixton Brawler -- arguably the toughest motherfucker on the roster at the time -- so far beyond his limits he just gave up an' faded away.
All that because he annoyed me. How d'ya think it'll play out with you, David?
Let me spare ya the effort of tryin' to put together a single coherent thought. This is personal. This is revenge. Sunday night, in Wheeling, West Virginia, I am gonna do everythin' in my power to cripple you, to end your career, to put a stop to this reign of terror you got goin' on in Chicago. You never thought I was good enough to compete with you, an' you still don't. You wanted this match because you see it as a chance to humiliate me in front of the thousands in attendance, an' the millions watchin' at home. You think it's gonna be an easy vict'ry.
A slow smile, edged in wicked intent, plays across her baby-pink lips.
Bonnie Blue
You think you're the predator an' I'm the prey. That's cute, Dave, but at best, you're a scavenger, left to pick the rotting bones of someone else's kill. You depend on the scraps this comp'ny throws your way. They're gonna push this match between us as polished veteran versus rookie sensation, as a grudge match six months in the makin' -- but let's not mince words here. What you're faced with at Aftermath this Sunday is a mercy killin', plain an' simple. Just remember, when it's all said an' done; when you're layin' on your back, starin' up at them lights while the ref raises my hand in vict'ry, you asked for this.
Bonnie Blue purses her lips and, with a wink, blows a kiss at the camera.
Bonnie Blue
See ya soon, Dave....
Fade out. Static.
End.