The SLICK & The DEAD

[Bonnie Blue]

Part One:
The S L I C K & the D E A D

Steel Pier juts out into the cold Atlantic Ocean, beset by gray waves that crash against reinforced pylons. Dense fog creeps along the dark and silent midway; shrouds the stilled rides in clinging white mist. Raging wind howls through the steel struts of an enormous Ferris wheel, sends an errant corn dog wrapper scudding along the boardwalk. Rats hold court beneath a rusted dumpster, fleeing at the sound of a solitary footstep in the night.

Sudden light floods the end of the pier, illuminating in festive cheer the outline of a double-decker carousel in eighteenth century Venetian style. Distorted calliope music plays as the wide ring begins to turn, bright-painted horses rising up and down; up and down in the endless race to nowhere. And standing on the iron staircase, dressed in body-hugging black, sea-blue eyes sparkling in the amusement park light, soon-to-be WCF World Champion, Bonnie Blue.

"Sup, old dawg? Are we licking our wounds? Are ya tryin' to pep talk ya way into belivin' ya still special? Yeah, of course y’are, cause you're a record with a needle that won't budge. Well, then, allow me the honor of injecting some truth through that needle into your heart, Sugar.

Let's make it stop.

Let's end the misery of Odin Balfore.”

A dark smile crosses blood-red lips; narrowed eyes glitter with malicious intent.

“You've never faced odds that are against you, because you can't. Y'ain't got the heart to. Y’ain't got the guts. You always say you ain't got no equal, but I know the truth. You can't accept there's an equal, because the idea TERRIFIES YOU.

You act like a sheriff, always talkin’ ‘bout how ya gotta ‘protect what you've built,’ but let's face it, when someone tougher than you shows up? You're gone.

Sunday, December 2nd, prepare to evaporate. Just like that overinflated ego. Gone, in the blink of an eye.”

The young goddess spreads her hands in a gesture that evokes smoke blown away by a sudden wind.

“What you've built? Don't make me laugh. You didn't come in here wreck house; nor resurrect a dying Dub-See-Eff from the ashes. Y'ain't done shit but prolong the death throes.

And the irony?

You're the one who killed it, you self-righteous piece of shit! Not ‘cause you're some tough son of a bitch who done run off all the competition. Hell nah, sugar, ‘cause I'm still here -- and ain’t nobody can compete with this young goddess right here! Least of all you, Big All-Daddy.

All you got is that seven foot tall frame of yours; all you have is intimidation. Take that away? And you ain't shit.”

Bonnie shakes her head in wry negation.

“Spoilers: you don't fucking intimidate me. You done everything in your power to delay me, to defeat me, to dissuade me comin’ after that shiny gold around your waist. And where has that gotten ya?

Goddamn nowhere. ‘Cause I'm still here, and I'm still comin’ for ya, Odin. Only this time, I ain't holding nothing back.

You know why Seth overlooked you, Odin? Because he knew what I know: you're just a caddy for a belt. A true champion knows how to overcome odds, you just rig the numbers with height and weight. But at Payback? The rules change.

At Payback everything changes.”

Slowly, the Time Witch descends the steps to pace clockwise, opposite the rotation of the carousel.

“The skalds won't write songs about you, Odin. Not after this. You won't be that big damn hero you pretend you are, because at Payback that mask comes off, and everybody's finally gonna see ya for what ya really are: smoke and mirrors. Form without substance. A big damn hype machine that, in the long run, can't keep it up for a legit challenger.

Talk about your THICK all day long, but baby, I know all about THICK -- and you ain’t it. Maybe Bobby Cairo was. All you are is a pale imitation. Just an old man, lost and floundering on a changing sea. The world keeps moving on, but you never do.

You and ya boi, ol’ Z, got a lot in common. Y'all both obsessed with this SLICK, and ain't neither of ya fixing to get it. At least ZMAC had the sense to realize it and the grace to accept the next best thing. That girl of his -- speaking of pale imitations -- she ain't nothing more than a blow-up doll fantasy; and she's still more than what you got. You just an old man who can't get hold of the real thing.

And that drives you fucking crazy.

You ain't nothing more than an old man's imagination that needs a pee pee every five minutes. All hail the great God Odin! A world champ delusional sexual predator on Hormone Replacement Therapy!

Jesus fucking Christ -- you're pathetic. You're sadder than that dipshit I put six feet under back at XIII. But don't worry, Big All-Daddy. Your time is coming. Real damn soon.”

Threading her way between painted wooden horses as she speaks, hand sliding in a vaguely suggestive manner up and down the brass poles, she comes to a stop beside one striking figure: midnight-black and rampant, frozen eternal in an attitude of defiance.

“I know time, It's more than a concept. Time is like a current that sweeps up small people like you and tosses you aside when your journey is done. Bodies smashed upon the rock of ages. Time flows on, while you? You're forgotten.

You know what the problem is with pretending to be a God? You don't own the I.P. The hands of time move on and another Odin will step up to the plate. At that moment, all your deeds will become disposable. All your accomplishments trashed. That's Ragnarok, Odin. And you can't escape it. I know, because it's your turn to experience it.

That's the true mark of Odin. To be a God for a little while, then fade into history. At Payback the page turns, the chapter is written, your story is done.

You're a blind man, Odin. Blind to everything save your own reflection. Your sight has faded away, and in your last few hours there is peace, there is comfort. You sing yourself a lullaby as your life flickers; a rhyme of the ancient champion while your coffin is prepared and your grave is dug. The preparations have been made as you sit on your throne and unknowingly soil yourself. Death is rarely dignified; yours ain't gonna be no different.

But somewhere, deep in that rusty old subconscious of yours, you must sense it. Your end drawing near. That's why you're running your mouth about me, week after week. You don't focus on the opponent, you focus on me. Cause I'm in your head now, Odin. That's why you lost to Alex Richards twice in the last two months. All you can think about is your fate barreling headlong down the tracks like a runaway freight train -- except ya girl here is driving that train and I am in complete control. You know as well as I do what's comin’ for ya.

That's why ya went back home. Why ya big dumb Nordic ass put up with all that shit talking from ya daddy. He wasn't wrong, y'know. You really are a disappointment, in every conceivable way. That's the real reason we never see you with the same woman twice: you can't even satisfy these thirsty-ass ring rats, hanging around trying to see just how THICK you really are. And once they find out the truth, every one of ‘em going home with that thirst still unquenched. Which is a perfect metaphor for stepping in that ring with you, Odin.

Ya just ain't got what it takes to get this SLICK off no more -- if ya ever did -- ya feel me?

Nah, ya don't. But ya want to, so goddamn desperately. I'm the only woman ever told you no, and you can't stand it. So you run home, looking for sympathy from a father who's dead inside and when he can't give ya what you're looking for, you run crying to your mommy, rotting in her grave.

Yeah, sugar, I know exactly why you visited your parents: you want to find peace before the end, some kind of island of solace you can retreat to before I arrive and tear everything down. I honestly can't sympathize with you because I'm neither old nor about to die. I also have no parents, I have no tether to nostalgia like you. I don't look over my shoulder and reminisce about the ‘Good Old Days’ like a mumbling bag lady. I have my gaze laser focused on the future. A new age without dinosaurs like you wasting oxygen on alpha male fantasies to buffer fragile egos beneath.

I can smell the stench of your ego from here, it's like ammonia, it's rotten with self importance.

You know what irony is? You're smaller on the inside than you appear on the outside.

Small little man, insecure and alone. No wife. No family. Just days draining away, counting down until the end.

You ain't nothing but an old fart who thinks he's a God. At Payback, meet the heretic with a plan, Odin. Meet progress, because I'm about the pull back the curtain and ruin the magic trick.”

With a cocky smile on blood-red lips, the Time Witch blows a mocking kiss to her opponent, then hand upraised in a backward peace sign, she steps down off the moving carousel and vanishes into the night.

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Part Two:
R E Q U I E M

Bright moonlight poured from a cloudless night sky to pick out a fresh trail of clear footsteps through new-fallen snow. A solitary figure trudged through the grounds of St. Mary's Cemetery, the only living person in a city of the dead. Boots crunched through icy gravel and frost-rimmed leaves along a winding route among rows of low headstones, finally stopping in front of a singular monument: an angel, wings furled, marble skin aglow beneath the light of the waning moon. There, the figure stopped and cast back a fur-trimmed hood. Vapor from her breath only partially obscured the delicate features of Bonnie Blue, wearing an expression that may, itself, have been formed from stone.

In her hands, the young goddess clutched a wreath of black holly, with sprigs of fresh mistletoe woven among the barbed leaves. White berries gleamed like pearls. Bonnie Blue read aloud the simple words etched deep into the tombstone.

“Aileen Larson; Beloved mother and wife.”

Interesting, she observed, as she leaned the wreath against the cool marble. Mother first, wife second. Usually the other way around. Probably means Odin laid out the cash for this setup. A monument not to his dear departed mom, but to himself. Figures.

From a backpack slung over one shoulder, the Time Witch retrieved several small votive candles, a lighter, and a bottle of black label Southern Comfort.

“Y'know, Mrs. L, I never thought it would come to this. Truth be told, never wanted it. I didn't want my best friend, my tag team partner, my fellow Guardian Alex Richards to be right about him. I wanted to maintain the idea that Odin Balfore was a man -- a god -- worthy of my respect. My admiration.

But week after week, he proves me wrong; shatters my illusions; makes me respect him just a little bit less each time.

I wanted to keep seeing him through the eyes of a fan, but every single week, instead, I find myself wondering how they can all be so blind. So a graveyard seems like the perfect place to bury the desiccated corpse of that old, long-cherished hope; embrace reality, and move on.”

Bonnie unscrewed the cap from the bottle and poured a measure out over the grave in a symbolic gesture; a toast to the departed. Then, she took a long drink from the bottle herself, replaced the cap, and set it down beside the marble monument. One by one, she lit each candle; each representing a title reign in her career: two for her Horrorkore and Tag titles in WCF, and six for her dominant run in UCI.

“Fact is, Mrs. L, ya boi is kind of a failure. Don't let that big shiny fool ya: it's really all he's got. That big mansion in Denmark, the limousines and private jets, that beach house on the island nation of Poon Guinea? Every one of those is a fortress of solitude. Just bricks in the wall he's put up between himself and the rest of humanity. Got himself thinking he's better than the rest of us -- deep down, even you, his dear old ma. All the love and attention, praise and encouragement; and in the end, what did it get ya, Mrs. L?

A big, fat nothing, that's what. Dumped in a hole in the ground, an ostentatious display of wealth you can't even enjoy, being dead and all; and what good does it do anyone?

Not a damn bit. This big-ass marble bitch watching over your little patch of dirt, that ain't to comfort you, Mrs. L -- and I'm sorry to be the one to break it to ya -- it's all for him. All to make Odin Balfore feel a little less guilty about abandoning his family. And maybe, just maybe, to rub his success in the face of a daddy who said he'd never amount to anything. Am I right?

Uh-huh. Ya bet your ass I am. He's so fucking transparent, ya boi Odin. I mean, look at him. Look at that motherfucker. Got everything going for him: he's a big, athletic son-of-a-bitch (no offense); got wealth and fame, a devoted fan base, can have any woman he wants -- except one; gets titles just handed to him. Seriously, when was the last time he ever had to actually earn his gold? And on top of all that, immortality and near limitless power!

You'd think he might have possibly done something to save his mama from the ravages of dementia, right? So what if he got therm fancy abilities after the fact? Ain’t like he don't know somebody who's into time travel or anything.

He could have asked real nice, and I'd have done him a solid, y'know? Wouldn't be the first time I done something like that. Coulda gone back, used his godlike mojo to halt the progression of your disease, and maybe you'd still be with us today. Maybe your poor husband wouldn't be wallowing so deep in the mire of his own self-pity that he'd try to off himself rather than live another day without ya. Maybe y'all could just be one big, happy family.

But Odin never chose that path, and don't it make ya wonder why, Mrs. L?

Why let the one and only person who believed in ya unconditionally, loved ya without question -- why let the most cherished woman in your whole life just die like that? Not knowing, in the end, even herself -- yet still devoted to the douchebag of a son who only showed up when it was convenient?”

The young goddess shook her head slowly. She took another hit off the bottle, and exhaled a heavy sigh.

“I reckon it's cause in the long run, you were inconvenient. Better, in his eyes, that you die with that misguided sense of pride in your son, than see the worthless trash he would become. Better for his image, too. He can play you for sympathy whenever it suits him. All because you spoiled him. Ain’t no wonder how he treats women -- you gave him this expectation, this sense of entitlement. Big bad All-Daddy thinks that little stick between his legs gets hard and any woman should just be grateful for the attention.

It must've been hard, passing that giant head and overinflated ego outta your slick. Probably warped your uterus so bad even Mama Mustache would feel sorry for ya. Surprised you survived…. but then again, maybe part of you didn't. That must've been when it started. Even then, looking down at the babe in arms, you had an inkling. Some part of you knew in that moment you probably shoulda drowned that abomination. Maybe then you wouldn't have had to live with the humiliation of what you brought into the world.

Maybe then, the shame wouldn't have eaten away at your mind until there was nothing left but the same persistent delusion that Odin Balfore is anything other than hot garbage.

The literal only reason your son has a World Title at all is that he sucks cock in high places. Specifically Pantheon Tower. He ain't skilled. He ain't at the top of his profession. He just knows the right ass to kiss and when. All else being equal, I'm his better in every way.

And on Monday night, at Payback, I'm fixing to prove that to the whole damn world!”

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Part Three:
Long Live the #HardcoreQueen

A solitary ring stands in an empty arena, illuminated by a lone spotlight. Perched on a turnbuckle, dressed in skin-tight designer jeans and a limited-edition retro Guardians T-shirt, the Hardcore Queen reigns supreme. She smiles like a viper coiled to strike.

“You got what I want, Odin, and I don't mean that flaccid three inches you like to pretend is THICK. I'm talking about that Dub-See-Eff World Title you strutting around with, like you actually fucking earned it. Run roughshod over this roster, acting like you're hard, hoping desperately people will believe it. But sugar, all you are is a one-note fucktrumpet playing a tune don't nobody wanna hear anymore. A fucking punchline to a joke that was never that funny. You're one Shia clap away from getting put down like a stray dog, but you're too old and delusional to even see it coming.

Nah, you still think you're in your prime; that anybody still gives a shit. You think this company owes you something just ‘cause you inked an exclusive contract -- when the simple fact is, you couldn't survive outside the Dub.”

The young goddess leaps down from the turnbuckle, pacing across the canvas as she talks.

“When Tommy Bates ran the Dub-See-Eff and you just stood around licking his balls, I was winning titles week after week in You-See-Eye! I dominated the competition like my name was Christian Grey! Every Monday night, You-See-Eye was fifty shades of Blue, ya dig? That's why I was a two time dual champion while you were busy getting bent over and fucked like you was Bates’ fifteen year old cousin!

And after all that, how come it took Corey Black to vanquish Tommy Bates, and not you? Because you can't face a man that can stare you back.

And that goes double for a woman. Ain't that right, sugar? That's why you went down so easy when ya faced Noble Savage -- why you didn't dare put a hand on her when you came after the Guardians two weeks ago on Slam.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Doubt.

That same fear that showed itself the night you took me outta that World Title Tournament -- with a sucker punch, like a motherfucking coward. That was no triumph, Odin Balfore; just you, showing the whole Dub Galaxy you couldn't get a decisive win over Bonnie Blue!

Yet you still got the unmitigated audacity to call me entitled?”

Her pacing slows to a stop, and Bonnie looks up, shaking her head in evident vexation.

“Must be hard to talk all that shit with Corey Black’s dick shoved that far down your throat. You suck that cock so much, I almost mistook you for Kylie Moore -- except she had the brains to realize her time was over and the courage to step out of the spotlight -- both qualities you ain't never had.

Yeah, well, fuck you, Odin! You're the one who expects everything handed to you on a golden plate!

When did I ever get gifted a title shot, let alone a belt? Nah, motherfucker -- I had to fight twice as hard for everything I ever got -- inch by inch, tooth and claw, until management couldn't ignore me. I ain't besties with the owner of the company, like some paper champions I could mention -- but I am the the blade about to shred that paper.

This ring right here -- this is the chop shop, and at Payback I'm fixing to take the Nordic Tank apart!

If you had an ounce of my talent; if you had a fraction of my skill, you wouldn't need Big Papa Corey to massage that massive ego of yours. You could earn your title shots in the ring instead of on your knees like the decrepit, aging loser I'm about to expose you for.

See, I didn't get handed them tag team titles. I went to godforsaken South America, tracked down David Sanchez while he was still clean, and convinced his ass to come back and seize them belts from the fat fucks parading them around like they were pie or some shit!

I didn't get that Horrorkore Title shot by accident, neither, ya ignorant jackass! For three weeks solid, I made Leon Hayze my personal bitch; I took that gold from around his waist and effectively ended his career. Left him with no choice but to latch onto Stephen Singh like a remora, but even the Church couldn't save that lost soul. He lasted two lackluster weeks after I deprived him of the one thing that defined him.

And that's the exact same fate I have in store for the God of Bore. While you're over there spouting the same tired catchphrases, Bonnie Blue is rewriting history! You coast on past success, but I'm looking the the future! Your stranglehold on this company is loosening day by day, and soon enough the hour’s gonna come when I pry those fingers off what's rightfully mine -- even if I gotta break ‘em to do it.

My mistake, Odin, was trying to respect you. Trying to find something meaningful in your accomplishments. But all you are -- all ya ever have been -- is defined by a string of placeholder championship reigns. You didn't put this company on the map, Big All-Daddy. Better men than you came before and did that -- you simply claimed the credit.

You keep running your mouth, talking all this shit about me and my Guardians like you think it makes you sound tough. But here's a reality check for ya: you just come off as insecure and desperate. Your voice is the feral snarl of a wounded animal. You feel the cold hand of Death clenched around your heart, and you know what's coming, but you ain't man enough to accept it. So you lash out, blind and weak and most especially afraid.

Because now you understand what the rest of us been seeing all this time: without that World Title, there is no Odin Balfore. You've wrapped your entire identity in a fleeting thing that can -- and will -- be taken from you. And once that's gone, you're nothing more than a ghost, ephemeral and formless, rattling your chains alone in the dark -- and nobody left to scare.

At Payback, the age of the old gods comes to an end; and my time begins. A new era is coming to the Dub-See-Eff Galaxy, and it starts with a brand new World Champion this Monday night!”

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Part Four:
Eulogy for the Damned

Hank Brown arrives on the Jersey shore just at sunset, in accordance with the instructions Bonnie Blue had texted him. There, on the beach, a full-sized replica Viking long boat rests against wooden bolsters. Seawater laps gently at the keel, eager to seize it and carry it out on the waves. Beside the boat, Bonnie carefully arranges a pyre of driftwood. Atop the pyre rests a straw effigy dressed in an Odin Balfore signature muscle shirt, a plastic championship belt draped across the torso. Satisfied at last with her work, the young goddess steps back and gives Hank a smile -- not especially cheerful or friendly, but the kind that raises the hair on the back of his neck and reminds him strongly of the taste of glass. Repressing a shudder as he pushes the memory away, he forces himself to smile back.

“Hank Brown! Right on time! Excellent! How ya doing, Hank? It's been a while!”

“Uh, yeah I'm good. And you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself these days. Your second shot at Odin Balfore and the WCF World Title! What are your thoughts on that?”

“Let me tell ya, Hank, first of all, I couldn't be more focused. I wanna say I'm excited, but excitement is a luxury I can't afford. Made that mistake before, and lost what I thought was my one and only opportunity at the biggest prize in this profession. I don't intend to let that happen again.

That's why tonight, on the eve of my greatest victory, I'm out here on this beach -- to hold a symbolic funeral for the champion that was and the Ragnarok that never happened; to give a eulogy for a man nobody will miss.

Odin Balfore was never a champion. He may have held this company's highest title, but only ever in preparation for someone else to take it. Stephen Singh took that belt when everyone said it couldn't be done. Then again, so did Adam Young -- leaving a smear of shit across an otherwise unblemished list of previous champions. And it was the All Father hisself who allowed that desecration, Hank! Who brought shame to the Dub-See-Eff by falling to keep the World Title outta the hands of the likes of Adam fucking Young!

This man is no God -- not of War, nor nothing else! For fuck’s sake, he barely qualifies as a man! He's never faced a real challenge in his life, and when he's run up against odds that ain't in his favor, Odin Balfore turns tail and hauls ass as far away from the Dub as possible. He waits out storm and comes rolling back in after it passes, sweeps away the shattered remains of what's left, and pretends he was the one responsible in the first place.

Well, I got news for ya, Odin!

This time, I am that storm! And for you, Odin Balfore, there ain't no escape. From the instant that bell rings, your tired old ass belongs to me! Make no mistake: your end comes at my hands! Payback is my night; the night the overhyped legend of Odin Balfore comes to a close; the night everyone sees you for the fraud you are!

Bonnie Blue is the next World Champion -- the Champion this company deserves! The writing is already on the wall, but you're the only one too blind to see it. You spent this entire month obsessing about me, worrying about me, trying your damnedest to get me outta the way. Those are not the actions of a confident man, but of a dying king who fears the heir to his throne.

And you're right to fear me, Odin. Last week? That was a preview of what's coming. You think I needed my Guardians to help me take out your sorry ass? The Hell I did! They all wanted a piece of you after your little temper tantrum two weeks ago. You thought that was rough? Mark my words:
There will be no mercy Monday night -- only a blood-letting the likes of which the Dub-See-Eff ain't never seen!

So pray, Big Bad All-Daddy. Pray to whatever gods you believe in and hope that, perhaps, they are more inclined to be merciful than I am. Because by the end of the night, it's gonna be this young goddess standing triumphant over your corpse as I claim the gold that had eluded me too long already.

Your day is done, old man -- and my night is only beginning. The reign of Odin Balfore is finished. Tomorrow night marks the rise of Bonnie Blue!

Goodbye, Odin Balfore. You will be little mourned and less lamented. Enjoy your last night as champion, because at Payback I'm taking my rightful place at the head of Dubya-See-Eff, and there ain't shit you gonna do about it!

At Payback it's all gonna change.”

And with her final words, the evening tide rolls in to knock away the bolsters. Greedy waves at last grasp the ship's stern and pull it out to sea. Beside the young goddess, a brazier flares to life; and at her gesture, Hank Brown picks up a longbow and a quiver from the sand beach. Handing them over, he watches as Bonnie Blue sets an arrow alight, nocks it against the bowstring, and takes careful aim. Her release is too soon, however, and the arrow hits the surface of the ocean with a muted hiss.

Her second, however, flies straight and strikes true. The straw man erupts in brilliant orange flame. A wicked smile slithers across blood-red lips as Bonnie Blue watches fire consume the funeral boat of a dying god.

So the goddess has spoken; so it shall come to pass.