Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 28, 2018 11:07:44 GMT -5
#BetterThanWho?
One step closer, and now the stakes are all the higher for it. She'd walked through Teo Del Sol, just as she'd assured the world she would, and now Bonnie Blue will face his tag team partner in round two. The first and last; and the only three-time UCI Tag Team Champion, she knows a few things about tag team wrestling: how fulfilling it can be to develop a rapport with your partner at an intuitive level -- but also how easy it is to rely too heavily on that connection, to become complacent. And that's when you find yourself face-to-face with your own partner, fighting over a second-place piece of tin on a strap... and losing.
Denim-clad legs dangle over the edge of the pickup's tailgate, white Timberland Chillberg boots swinging back and forth to lightly brush the tops of winter-dried grasses. Reclining slightly, the young woman looks up at the few stars not obscured by skyglow; at one, in particular, brighter and more prominent than the rest, winking in a steady, regular pattern. Vaguely, she wonders what new scheme for global domination Jim Thuggin might be cooking up now. Something cartoonishly complex, no doubt, and just as apt to failure as the previous attempt. It was hubris that had proven his downfall, in the end.
Hubris. And no man more afflicted with it than Kyle Kemp.
"Well, would you look at this shit right here? Before I get to the BAD MOTHERFUCKER, I gotta take out this SAD motherfucker. Kyle 'Bitterer Than You' Kemp -- an' baby, trust me, you got plenty of reason to be. That's one diff'rence 'tween us. Two and a half years, and you're still swimmin' them same little circles in the same little pond. Not me, sugar. I went out an' achieved, ya feel me? I built an entire company from the ground up; headed the most decorated faction in that company; dominated every title scene I stepped into; made an' ended entire careers. I main evented damn near every pay-per-view there was. Why do you think I was brought back at such a premium?"
Baby-pink lips turn up in a cocky smirk.
"Or did you reckon it was some accident I happened to make my return just in time to take part in this tournament? Yeah, Odin been braggin' about how he got summoned down from Asgard and shit, but man, all I did was barely mention I might want to come back on a weekly basis -- and all of a sudden, I'm two heartbeats away from that WCF World Championship! But you, Kyle... man, it feels like your inclusion ain't nothin' more than an afterthought."
A brief, derisive snort as she shakes her head.
"I wonder why that is. Can't possibly be that Kyle Kemp is so utterly pedestrian, so mind-numbin'ly uninspirin', an' so thoroughly mediocre that watchin' paint dry is a pleasure by comparison. Seriously, man, you got a free pass last week; it's like Smith didn't even show up. That's your superpower, ain't it? Blandness. Bein' boring as fuck is how you got this far -- 'cause ain't hardly anybody can withstand the sense of abject apathy you project.
You claim to be 'better than' just about everyone, yet I can't think of anybody notable you managed to put on their back. Then again, that might just be 'cause I don't really care. You're a steppin' stone, Kyle. A pity fuck. But worse than that -- a pity fuck I'm gonna have to work like these marks out here just to get you hard. Honestly, sugar, you ain't givin' me much to work with, neither; might as well tuck that floppy little thing an' pass yourself off as the next SJW. At least that'd give you some flavor, you unseasoned bitch.
Look at you, Kyle. Same man you were two-and-a-half, three years ago. Whenever it was we first encountered each other -- and you were part of a tag team, then, too. You played the dull, monochromatic Renfield to John Rabid's enthusiastically dramatic Count Dracula; which, frankly, ruined the complex character dynamic an' totally shot my suspension of disbelief right in the ass. Rabid might be a ham, but at least he understands nuance. You, though, Kyle -- it was like you were just readin' lines out of a script; an understudy without the ambition to ever appear on stage.
That's pretty damn apt: Understudy. You know all your character's lines, but you lack the capacity to deliver them with any punch, any flair. Always lettin' somebody else pick up your slack. First John; now Teddy Sol. Man, you weren't just ridin' coattails, neither. It's like you're actively resistant to success -- so much so, that both these men, individually, had to drag you, kickin' an' screamin', into the spotlight. That tag title you wear? Ain't no more yours this time 'round than it was before. All you ever done is stand on the shoulders of better men.
Better. Men.
Better. Than. You."
The idling engine of the Dodge Demon lets out a low growl and a puff of dark exhaust, as if to punctuate the words of the Time Witch. She hops down off the tailgate, pacing with rising vexation.
"Jam Willy Jesus fuckin' Christ -- what the hell business d'ya really think you got, steppin' to Bonnie Blue? You're the forgotten #beachkrew guy. Literally nobody except me remembers you. You were so dull, they couldn't even come up with a clever, sea-themed nickname for ya... somethin' about kelp, maybe? Seaweed, bro. You're seaweed.
But me? Shit, man, there are whole fansites an' Facebook groups dedicated to the night Bonnie Blue joined #beachkrew. An' yes, I am fuckin' proud of it -- because of what it took. It wasn't a matter of kissin' ass; I had to change my whole damn paradigm, I had to prove myself, I had to motherfuckin' work to earn my spot in #beachkrew! People are still talkin' about it to this day! Last to join, in for the shortest amount of time, but I made the biggest splash because it was so damned unexpected. An' that, Kyle, is how you entertain! That's how you get remembered! That's how you sell merch, up the buyrates, put them asses in the seats! An' that's the Godnilla-damned diff'rence 'tween me an' you.
People want to see Bonnie Blue in that ring.
People want to see Bonnie Blue carryin' gold.
People want to see Bonnie Blue take on the All-Father hisself right here, right now!"
Another rumble from the pickup adds a note of emphasis.
"Uh-huh, well all want that. All Kyle Kemp an' no Odin Balfore makes Bonnie a dull girl. Unfortunately, we gotta work before we play; business before pleasure -- with one exception."
Sea-blue eyes take on a mischievious sparkle as the Daughter of Time glances at something (or, more accurately someone) beyond the range of view.
"The point bein', this week ain't about havin' fun -- not that I ain't gonna try. But mostly, this week is about crossin' one more name off the list. A chore, like washin' dishes; necessary, useful, an' repetetive as hell. We're s'posed to be givin' these people a show, blow their fuckin' minds, an' the best they're gonna get is watchin' Bonnie Blue do housework when I mop the floor with Kyle Kemp."
Mistress of the Metaphor, how she bends the words to her will, like an opponent between the ropes.
"Tell us all again, Kyle, just who is it that you're 'better than'? Sure as fuck ain't ya boi Theodore Sunshine -- the man who left you out in the cold in a triple threat match, to claim the Omega Title for himself -- knowin' damn good an' well you'd had your eye on that bit of shiny for a hot minute. Don't that sting? A little, maybe in the ass, where you got fucked like a drunk bitch at a #beachkrew party? Yeah, bruh. That's your tag team partner. Tells you everything you need to know.
It wasn't a matter of him simply bein' the better man that night, Kyle. He made sure you were outta the way so he could make his move. You, scrappin' an' clawin' for a shot at that Omega belt for weeks on end, finally get your hands on it, an' Teo swoops in to snatch it right out from under ya. The fact that he didn't pin you kinda just adds that little pinch of salt right in the wound, don't it? Man, I may call Rabid the Serpent, but Teddy is just a low-down dirty snake. When it comes to tag team partners, you didn't exactly trade up."
Bonnie frowns, deep in thought.
"No, not Teo. An' for that matter, y'ain't nowhere near John's level, neither, so that's already two people who are better than Kemp. Ooh, and Grayson Pierce, remember him? He's the guy who pinned ya, back when you an' Rabid was tag champs, an' took them pretty straps away from y'all -- for Rebellution. A man you consistently derided as inferior humiliated you that night.
The list goes on. Mikey eXtreme -- seriously? I know, it was Corey Black he pinned, but the fact is, Kemp didn't prevent it. And for real, who loses to Mikey eXtreme? In a title match, no less! At least Corey was probably just tired and needed a nap, he's got an excuse. You're a virile young athlete in your prime and you got outclassed by an extra from a casting call for a Rob Zombie film. But shit, man, at least Mikey's entertaining! A funny little clown, juggling knives in the dark.
Whatchu got, Kyle? An intermittent series of month-long title runs and a steady string of embarassin' failures.
So, remind me, Mr. Kemp -- better than who?"
***************************************
Echoing off the walls, the metallic tching! of a ball striking aluminum filled the air of an indoor batting range somewhere in the vicinity of Newark, New Jersey. Fathers watched over sons or daughters taking their first uncertain practice swings; Bonnie Blue felt a pang of regret as she strode past, checking numbers against the text receipt on her phone. Over her shoulder, rather than her tag strap, this time the young woman carried a Louisville Slugger -- a custom made C271 model, all hand-crafted maple in a finish that shaded from vibrant aquamarine to deep indigo, with a white-wrapped grip -- created at moderate expense specifically for the occasion.
This is the kinda place you used to come, ain't it, Kemp? When you wanted some peace of mind, some clarity.
When you wanted to escape. From him.
She found her spot, at last, next from the end. Stepping inside, she took a few warm-up swings with the new bat, admiring the way the colors seemed to move and ripple, wavelike, beneath the light. Dressed in ebony leggings and a limited edition neon-pink #beachkrew baseball jersey with her name printed across the shoulders above the shark logo, Bonnie tugged the reinforced batting helmet down over her blonde-and-blue hair, and felt momentarily complete.
Is this what it feels like? The roar of the crowd as you walk to home plate -- just like walking to the ring -- that little jolt of adrenaline, no matter how many times you done it before...
Bonnie Blue stepped into the batting area and assumed a ready stance. With a hiss of air, a ball sailed at her, and she swung -- too low, and missed! Not as easy as it looked, she had to admit that much. Adjusting her grip on the bat, she readied herself for the next pitch, an easy lob -- the wood kissed leather, but a buzzer sounded, alerting her to a foul ball as it sailed across a sensor. Again and again, a ball came soaring through the air; again and again, she missed or fouled or didn't hit it hard enough. Perhaps two out of every dozen hits were good, and that was a relative term. Frustration began to darken her mood.
"Pardon me," came a male voice from behind, "I hate to intrude, but you look like you're having a little trouble."
"One way of puttin' it," Bonnie said.
"Mind if I give you one little pointer?" asked the man. "Honestly, you're that close -- it's just one tiny detail."
Shrugging in a noncommital way, the young woman resumed her spot in the cage and waited for the next pitch. She didn't like encouraging random dudes, fans or otherwise.
"You're rolling your wrist when you swing. Try not doing that."
The next ball came. Bonnie swung, this time mindful of her wrists, and connected with a satisfying crack! She grinned, and spun to face the man, who smiled back. He was tall, with an average build and the beginnings of a spare tire around the middle. Thinning hair and glasses five years out of fashion marked him as middle-aged; the sweater over a button-down shirt, worn un-iroinically, screamed accountant. Nowhere near perfection, but at least with greater success, Bonnie Blue knocked out another few dozen pitches before growing bored with the activity.
"Way better," said the guy, as she emerged from the cage.
Great, one of those types, Bonnie thought -- he'd obviously been hanging around, watching -- and hefted her bat meaningfully as she met his gaze. He seemed oblivious.
"You play?" she asked.
Shaking his head, he pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"No, just a fan. I come up here to blow off a little steam. Tax season, you know? I manage an H&R Block in Cherry Hill, and -- Well, you don't care about that."
"No shit, bruh," Bonnie replied, cutting off his underwhelming attempts to charm his way into her panties. "Personal space, have you heard of it?"
Realization seemed to dawn on Bonnie's new companion that she wasn't interested in his awkward advances. Recognition came next, as he began to see the reality before him, instead of just a nice rack and a cute ass. His eyes widened almost comically, and he took a couple of steps back.
"Oh, my bad. Guess I was just a little star-struck there for a minute. You're really Bonnie Blue -- like the actual -- her?"
An amused smirk crossed her lips.
"Last time I checked, yeah."
"I mean, wow. What are you doing slumming it here?" he asked, half-joking.
"Same as you, I reckon. Workin' out a little frustration, maybe get inside my opponent's head while I'm at it."
The guy nodded. "This would be the place to start -- but you're gonna have to put in a lot more time at bat if you wanna approach Kyle Kemp. Dude was a prodigy out on the field."
"Too bad he Pete Rosed himself outta the game," Bonnie remarked.
"Well, I think that's a gross oversimpli -- "
"Silence, pleb. It's an over simplification 'cause that's what Kyle Kemp is -- oversimplified. Only a whole lot less emphasis on 'over', ya dig? Dude couldn't get heat if you doused him in gasoline an' set him on fire!
You know why Kyle Kemp sabotaged his own career? It's 'cause he knew he'd hit a plateau, there wasn't no 'better' after that. Today's baseball prodigy; tomorrow's washed-up failure. Not a fate I'd wish on any man, so I get it: go out with a little notoriety instead of gettin' swept out with the trash."
"That's a fair point, but -- "
"Did I ask?" Bonnie shot the man a glare. "What are you, a member of the Kyle Kemp fan club?"
"President, actually."
The Daughter of Time stared at the Kemp fan in disbelief.
"Hold on, you're tellin' me there's a legit Kyle Kemp fan club?"
He nodded.
"With a president..."
The man nodded again. Bonnie eyed him skeptically.
"Are there even enough members to need a president? Or a club, for that matter?"
This time, he said nothing, merely dropping his eyes to the pitted concrete floor beneath their feet. At last, the guilt of years spent living a lie overwhelmed, and he dropped to the floor, sobbing dramatically.
"Ok! I admit it! I'm -- I'm the only one! The only person in the whole world who still admires Kyle Kemp! There's no fan club. It's just me, just plain old boring Greg. I don't have any imagination and that's why Kyle Kemp appeals to me so much! Oh Jam Willy Jesus, I am pathetic! I am a wretch! How can I admire a man who represents the very Platonic archetype of Perfect Dullness?"
Compelled by a sudden sense of compassion, Bonnie Blue knelt and put a reassuring hand on Greg's shoulder.
"You're gonna be good, bruh. It's cool, check it out -- the first step is gettin' Woke. The next step is stayin' that way. But your path to recovery has begun and it only gets better from here. You ain't alone, Greg, even if it seems that way. Plenty of others have been suckered in by that bland, non-threatening demeanor; those vaguely good-looking but imminently forgettable features; the glossy sheen of perceived talent coverin' up a wealth of personal an' professional deficiencies. No, Greg, you weren't the first, nor the only -- but I promise you this: no more.
After Sunday night, Greg, won't no motherfucker ever be fooled into thinkin' there's anything more to Kyle Kemp than strings for someone else to pull. An' once I pull back the curtain to show everybody the truth, then I'm gonna bury his career in the same shallow grave I dug for Teo's an' leave both of 'em there for the crows."
***************************************
Are you starting to see?
Has the picture come into focus yet?
Here I am, standing at the precipice -- the grandest moment of my career or the most crushing downfall hang in the balance -- and in this moment, all I can see is that gold around Steven Singh's waist.
Let's face it, winning this tournament is the only way I'd ever get near Singh. Not because the man's got the sense to actually be concerned about me as serious competition; his ego blinds him to the threat. No, he literally believes I'm not worth his time.
Fine with me.
That means he ain't gonna see it coming. None of y'all gonna see it coming. You're all looking ahead to this David versus Goliath mismatch gonna happen next week between me and Odin Balfore. The outcome of the semifinals is a foregone conclusion. Odin gets fed easier meat for being Rabid's lapdog, but I don't need the special treatment, and the WCF Galaxy doesn't really need to watch me kick the shit outta Mikey eXtreme -- again.
This isn't about Mikey eXtreme; this isn't about Kyle Kemp. In the end, it's not even about Odin Balfore. It's about me. Bonnie Blue's about to take it all and not one of y'all gonna see it coming until it's too damn late.
