Post by Bonnie Blue on Feb 10, 2018 21:50:14 GMT -5
Way to live down to everybody's expectations -- complete and utter fuckin' failure!
Bonnie Blue leaned her forehead against the cool tile beneath a cascade of warm water that sluiced away perspiration and eased the aching in her neck and shoulders; but did nothing for the burning shame that flushed her cheeks. Tears stung, welled up, and -- alone at last -- she let them fall.
My only chance, gone. All that effort for nothing.
They didn't understand. A parade of well-meaning condescension -- "You should be proud you made it this far" and "Well, it was Odin Balfore, after all" -- as if she'd been foolish to even imagine overcoming the odds. As if her job had simply been to make Balfore look good, because nobody was realistically going to let Bonnie Blue anywhere near a WCF belt of any kind, let alone the World Title. What they were really saying was: "Fuck you for ever thinking you stood a chance."
Yeah, really... it was stupid. Everyone was right. Singh. Balfore. All of them. I'm a glorified midcarder. That's my place. Doesn't matter that I've defeated solid main eventers on a regular basis, that one time I come up against something I couldn't quite handle and I don't even really understand how I lost. What I accomplished before, obliterated in an instant.
And what do I get? A pat on the head and told that I shouldn't feel bad because of course I was never gonna win.
Of course not.
Yeah? Well fuck all of you!
Unconsciously, the young woman drove a fist into the tile, sending broken shards of porcelain clattering to her feet.
I deserved that goddamned title shot! Needed it. My last chance at any kind of success in this company... I know how it plays out from here. Career death spiral. Relegated to the midcard, where I'll bounce around in Mediocrity Land until I fuck up one of those matches because I won't care about it. That'll land me down in low card, bathroom break matches. They'll trot me out for another big one or two at pay-per-views; but only so I can get the next guy over. That's my job now.
Not for Bonnie Blue. There's more dignity at this point in taking Odin's advice and retiring from wrestling to learn how to be all domestic for my man. Which... actually doesn't sound that bad right now. I could be content. There would always be that regret, but honestly -- well, in the long run, better to get retired by a literal god now than wait for the inevitable final-straw loss to some underperforming fuccboi who'll be gone a week later.
Trembling hands lathered smooth, lightly-tanned skin; worked conditioner through blonde tresses. The water turned cold before she was through, but Bonnie was past caring. Once the soap had rinsed clean, she turned off the water and wrapped up in a towel, shivering. She dressed slowly, relishing the sharp prickle of chill air on her flesh that stole away attention from her devastating loss. He would be waiting for her by now, and yet she delayed; unwilling to face the sympathy she didn't feel she deserved.
Wade would understand, intimately. While no stranger to losing, he'd won more often than not, and he'd been the World Champion once already. He didn't need to prove himself anymore. The closest Bonnie had ever been to gold had been her involvement in multiple-person matches on the wrong side of #beachkrew, back when Dustin Beaver had been the Television Champion. All she'd have had to do to claim it was beat seven other people, each equally intent on wearing that TV Title around their waist. She hadn't had what it took then; she didn't now. It was a truth she would have to face sooner or later.
Not good enough.
Never good enough.
Strong arms enfolded her when she expressed her doubts to Wade; alone, in a quiet little motel off the highway. He held her close, kissed the top of her head, and said nothing for a long time. The young goddess relaxed, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, senses filled with the heady, masculine scent of his skin: ocean breeze and sunlight, and the undertone of something indefinable. Warmth flooded her chest, cut through the Gordian knot in the pit of her stomach, salved her wounded pride.
It was, after all, only one match. The most important match in her career to date, but only one, nonetheless. There would be others; but Bonnie Blue was going to be damned if she sat passively by and waited for the next opportunity to come along. She needed to step up her game if she intended to make an impression. Bonnie Blue doesn't simply belong in the main event scene.
Bonnie Blue is the Main Event.
Like a caged lioness, the Daughter of Time paces the confines of a twenty-by-twenty square; dressed in her ring gear, the UCI Tag strap draped over one shoulder, and a microphone in hand. She perches on a turnbuckle to peer out, imperiously, over a dark and empty arena.
"Pain is temporary; glory is forever. That's the first lesson this young goddess learned, back when Bonnie Blue wasn't even a name on the bottom of a card; subject to change, ya dig? Before Bonnie Blue was BONNIE MOTHAFAWKIN' BLUE -- the baddest bitch in the business, an' y'all know that's right!
Sunday night, I stood toe-to-toe with the BAD MOTHERFUCKER; the big, bad All-Daddy; the GAWD of WAR, Odin Balfore his own damn self -- an' by Jam Willy Jesus if I didn't withstand every damn thing that big son of a bitch threw at me! An' I am not anywhere near done. Not by a longshot.
Bonnie Blue don't quit. That Dub-Sea-Eff World Title is my daddy's legacy; my heritage. Last couple of years in exile, I took a backseat to more ambitious men -- not that it was time wasted. I learned all I could from those men. And in the meantime, I brought a major wrestlin' promotion to worldwide prominence, dominated as the company's most decorated talent and second-longest reignin' You-Sea-Eye World Champion, an' finished out my time there as one half of the reignin' Tag Team Champions.
Now, you put that together with what I've done here in the last few months. Every time Bonnie Blue steps in that ring, it's not some random jobber in that other corner. Champions. Former champions. Hell, in two weeks, I singlehandedly dropped your Tag Champs; your Omega Champ. Before that? Gravedigger. Frank Patrick Venable. David Sanchez. My resume reads like a who's who of the Dub's greatest names, an' I only just lost to Odin Balfore.
Big, strong war-god an' he couldn't keep little ol' Bonnie on her back -- not without knockin' me out cold -- 'cause there's no stoppin' the #DeepBlueSea. I'mma rise up again an' overwhelm your ass. That's how it do when you facin' Bonnie Blue."
A cocky smirk lifts glossy-pink lips as she hops down and stalks another circle around the inside of the ring.
"Here I am, one more time, this Sunday night -- facin' another champion. All this time wreckin' dudes with gold around their waist an' the closest I get to a title shot is a whisper away from the World Title; 'cept it may as well have been a whole chasm. I put champ after champ under my boots, but not one solid title shot to my name. Hints. Echoes. Empty promises.
Business as usual. Nice to see nothin' changes, no matter who's in charge. Reckon I maybe shoulda let Lerch -- an' Rabid, I guess -- play grab-ass with me, like the rest of y'all FGTS did. 'Cause honestly, that's all I got left. Bein' a proven winner in the ring an' a fan favorite don't count for shit. Beatin' every damn champion put in front of me don't put me no higher on the ladder. Fuck's sake, now motherfuckin' Jason O'Neal is ahead of me in line for that World Title an' FUCK THAT!
I told you motherfuckers this is MY TIME -- an' if I have to burn Dubya-SEA-Eff to the ground to prove it, that's exactly what I aim to do!"
Sea-blue eyes blaze with determination as she continues to address the absent audience.
"Y'know, we can't ALL be a sociopathic frat boy with delusions of grandeur, possessed by the ghost of an alien shark god, acting as emissary for a race of alien refugees bent on global domination via control of a wrestlin' promotion.
We can't ALL be Space Dracula, with a long, storied hist'ry an' confusin' -- often conflictin' -- motivations an' a ever-shiftin' moral alignment; who is also an agent for the selfsame race of alien refugees, an' who is himself bent on global domination via control of a wrestlin' promotion... who then runs off to have himself a proper sulk in his tea an' crumpets the second things don't go accordin' to his nefarious scheme. Bunch of fuckin' titty-babies in this place, I swear!
We can't all be the guy callin' himself a 'Golden God' before there was any merit to the claim; who suckled black tar at the teat of the biggest CHOKE ARTEEST in Dub-Sea-Eff hist'ry; who conned his way into contention by any means necessary...
No, we can't all be those things. All the good ideas taken, the best storylines pursued to their logical ends."
Her tone turns mocking.
"Like who gives a fuck about a second-generation wrestler tryin' to follow in the footsteps of a father she never knew, except as a legend -- one she could never really live up to -- possessed of strange, unfathomable powers of temporal manipulation (if you believe in such things, of course) an' who sought guidance from her own archnemesis; who risked her own destiny, her very soul perhaps, by placin' her career in the hands of a two-thousand-plus year old extraterrestrial vampire, who himself woulda just as gladly put her six feet under as help her in any way. Who somehow overcame a deeply embedded mutual animosity an' rose up to briefly join the most dominant faction ever in Dub-Sea-Eff hist'ry -- that's #beachkrew, y'all -- an' in the process, to find unexpected love. All that, while dominatin' another comp'ny... yeah, that's pretty dull, all right.
No, we can't all be Jared Holmes, or John Rabid, or Sidney J. Ragequit, or Thievin' Stephen Singh.
An' y'all know what else?
Not a goddamn one of y'all can be Bonnie Blue. You can't even measure up. The instant that bell rings, I destroy whatever's in my path, an' y'all think you can keep me from what's rightfully mine? What? 'Cause I lost one match? One? Outta how many others? Oh yeah, y'all all wanna talk shit about this young goddess right here -- as if my record don't speak for itself. My victories far outnumber a few minor losses, an' the fact remains that I still outlasted Odin Balfore in the match that was supposedly his specialty -- that bein' WAR -- an' last week wasn't nothin' more than a little setback."
Bonnie Blue hesitates, taking a deep breath as she gathers her thoughts.
"I oughta thank Odin, honestly. That last shot to the head gave me some clarity, I think. Now I understand what I gotta do. See, Rabid ain't pullin' on my strings no more. I'm off the leash. Ain't nothin' -- but nothin' -- stoppin' Bonnie Blue from tearin' straight through that locker room, one by one. Y'all thought I was edgy as part of #beachkrew. That I was a little bit naughty, nailin' Teddy Sol with that blue mist. Well, let me tell ya -- that ain't shit compared to what I'm about to do.
An' it starts with you, Leon Hayze. I'd like to say that I'm sorry. That I'm not gonna enjoy this. That an example has to be made, an' it's unfortunate, but necessary. I mean, it is necessary; an' I can assure you it ain't personal in any way. Ain't gonna be much consolation when you layin' on that mat, starin' at them lights an' wonderin' what just happened.
All I see, Leon, is another champion across the ring. A current champion. No belt on the line, just like with Teo. Wonder why that is. How come nobody wanna risk their shiny against Bonnie Blue? Like management don't even think I'm worth a consolation prize. Not that I want it, mind you. No offense, but it's a little... pedestrian. Hardcore? I don't need a belt to show the world that's who I am, that the Hardcore Queen is more than just a cute nickname. I earned that shit by damn near killin' a man twice my size an' vicious as they come in a no-holds-barred, no-disqualification, falls-count-anywhere street fight.
So believe me when I say I ain't got no qualms about sheddin' blood, Leon; an' I sure as hell won't have a problem spillin' yours. An' bein' as you are the Hardcore Champion, I reckon you can bear up under the brunt of my frustration. Ain't a matter of simply ventin', understand; this is gonna be a statement. I am climbin' to the top of this comp'ny, one way or another, an' I cannot do that toilin' away in midcard obscurity.
You may be comfortable with that, Mr. Hayze. I mean, it ain't exactly like you're a young man these days. Pretty damn impressive how ya put yourself through these hardcore matches. It's, y'know, 'good enough', like folks been tellin' me. Good enough I got in that tournament in the first place; good enough I dropped Teddy Blaze without breakin' a sweat; good enough I steamrolled Kyle Kemp; good enough I lasted more'n a few seconds in the ring with OMG ODIN BALFORE HIMSELF.
As if I didn't kick out every Godnilla-damned time I got pinned! As if I didn't make that man work for every advantage! Folks just actin' like it was the expected outcome, so I shouldn't be salty; like every carefully calculated move I made in that ring counted for EXACTLY NOTHIN'! As if I haven't got a clue what I'm doin', an' every win was a fluke, a stroke of dumb luck as opposed to years of hard work, dedication, an' skill! Fuck that!
Good enough? Nuh-uh. That ain't me. I'm a force of nature, the #DeepBlueSea, an' y'all better believe the high tide is rollin' in. An' this time, I ain't askin' you to #BendTheKnee, Mr. Hayze. I ain't ASKIN' nobody, never again! Y'ain't gonna bend, 'cause I'm gonna break ya. I done told y'all I wasn't playin' around -- an' now I'mma show everybody just exactly what that means.
This is a declaration of war.
Leon Hayze is the first casualty -- but he will, by Godnilla, not be the last!
Y'all who think yourselves mighty, who think yourselves safe; y'all hear the words of this young goddess an' feel the Truth flowin' through 'em. I'm stakin' my claim on the Dubya-Sea-Eff -- this is my domain, an' by the time I'm done, each an' every one of y'all gonna bow to Bonnie Blue."
In the blackest reaches of a vast and cold cosmos, floating amidst the fading light of a burned-out star, thousands of jagged fragments of a once-thriving world slip free the last of orbit's tether. And among the planet's remains, one alone stands out; not for any peculiar feature of decaying geology, but for the fact that life -- if it can be called that -- yet remains. A singular figure stands at the edge of a plateau overlooking a drop into sheer space, dark eyes scanning the horizon. The locals had called it Jalaxaritkatusa; now they didn't call it much of anything. All according to the Prophecy; the real one, not the nonsense one of these primitives had taken to preaching at even lesser life forms throughout the galaxies.
Thuggin almost succeeded, the other voice reminds him.
The being once known as the Dark Timekeeper rolls his eyes, already weary of the presence of the other, who called himself Scathe. Out of a necessity forced on them by Bonnie Blue and the Guardians, the two entities shared possession of a singular body -- and had been seeking a means to separate ever since. To that end, the Dark Timekeeper had upgraded his remaining luchadrones and dispatched them to hunt down the Daughter of Time. One way or another, he was convinced that Bonnie was the key.
And at last, the gambit had begun to pay off. A crackle of electricity and the smell of burnt ozone rend the air; the Dark Timekeeper turns at the expected sound of a footstep to calmly regard the featureless face of one of his drones. Aware of the attention, the pallid-fleshed creature squares its shoulders and raises its head, waiting for orders.
"Report," commands the Dark Timekeeper.
Purple lightning surges along the surface of the smooth, domed head as the biomechanical creature projects a series of videos and images against a sheer cliff, simultaneously relaying data via telepathic uplink direct into the Dark Timekeeper's mind. Far more advanced than any human's -- or most other species, for that matter -- his mind sorts the data and collates it into a relatable format. In essence, the last year of Bonnie Blue's life is laid out in a series of facts and figures, assimilated and understood in a matter of seconds.
Comprehension takes hold, and he chuckles as he considers. The fact of the regeneration had come as only a mild surprise; it stands to reason that the Timekeeper would protect his little genetic experiment. The shock had come when he realized who it was that returned the girl to the Rock of Ages in order to restore her life. Carefully, he studies the projected image of Bonnie Blue, laid out on a stone bier and ablaze with azure light. Beside her, the figure of a man reaches toward her, outstretched fingers caressing her delicate jaw -- and where they touch, a flare of dark flame against the white-blue glow.
"Serpent," he whispers into the darkness. "What have you done to the girl?"