The Longest Night
Dec 23, 2018 18:48:56 GMT -5
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Alex Richards, Wade Moor, and 1 more like this
Post by Bonnie Blue on Dec 23, 2018 18:48:56 GMT -5
Night falls early on the Winter Solstice, red sun sinking quickly beneath the far horizon as street lamps flare to life with an orange sodium glow. Traditional carols float on the chill night air, sung by a small quintet; procrastinating shoppers pitch coins into an overturned hat; candles flicker in frosted windows as colored lights twinkle in festive merriment. No one in the quaint, rural English town pays much heed as thick fog rushes in over asphalt streets, to lend an eerie Dickensian aura to the holiday atmosphere.
Two figures step out of the mist -- a gentleman in a tailored, charcoal grey suit, and a stunning blonde in a sapphire blue dress, shoulders draped in faux ermine -- immediately recognized by anyone with even a passing interest in professional wrestling: John Rabid and Bonnie Blue, the hottest power couple in the business. Hats are tipped, friendly greetings exchanged, as the evening crowds hurry along home, or to the village pub to escape the growing wintry chill.
Arm in arm, the pair follow a few late stragglers down a narrow lane, to a venerable old brick building with a weather-worn sign dangling from an iron stanchion; on it, an image of a magpie gripping the handle of a beer mug. Someone holds the door open as they duck under the lintel, stepping into a room full of cheery warmth and raucous laughter. Polished wood, hundreds of years old, seems to glow in the light reflected from a large fireplace at one end of the room. A big screen near the bar is playing tonight's edition of Kingdom Pro Wrestling's Saturday night Rampage; nearby, a cluster of locals watch, enrapt, as they cheer on the antics of their favorite superstars.
A short, round-faced man in shirtsleeves and a patched waistcoat that looks as old as the pub itself -- clearly the owner -- smiles broadly and shakes their hands with unbridled enthusiasm.
“Mr. Rabid, Miss Blue, so good of you both to grace us with your presence tonight! Come, come -- I've reserved you a table, if you don't mind,” he chatters at the pair, leading them through the crowd to a booth in the corner.
Bonnie allows the proprietor to remove the faux fur stole from her shoulders, and drape it over a coat hook affixed to the wall. The seats are wooden, shallow and high-backed, but comfortable enough. Savory scents of roasting meat and aromatic herbs drift from the kitchen as a waitress carries plates to another table. The owner hurries off, only to reappear moments later with two heavy stoneware mugs, full to the brim with a dark, frothy porter.
“To whet the appetite,” he tells them, by way of explanation, then excuses himself once more, vanishing into the crowd.
The Time Witch watches him go, an amused smile on her lips. She turns back to find the Serpent gazing at her across the table, dark eyes enchanting in the soft luminescence of a candle. She could lose herself in those eyes forever when he looked at her like that. Blushing slightly, she takes a sip of the rich, strong brew in front of her, enjoying the robust flavor with a newly refined sense of taste.
“Now this is a pub,” Bonnie comments, sea-blue eyes still taking everything in, “Not like that abomination last week. Sorry about that, by the way.”
Rabid shrugs. “It served its purpose. The point was illustrated -- quite well, I think. An eyesore gone, Kennedy Matthews vanquished, and now I have another investment for my portfolio. I'd call that a win.”
He reaches across the table to twine his fingers with hers.
“This is the England I wanted you to see. Not the Downton Abbey tourist traps, not the pop culture shallowness, where everything is tea and crumpets, fish and chips; it's all so played out. London today is a facade, a fabrication of slick advertising executives with no real feel for the culture, for the people. This -- here and now -- this is real. And tonight is special.”
A warm, genuine smile crosses Bonnie's lips as she lifts his hand and kisses his fingers.
“I'm glad you brought me here. After destroying Kennedy Mathews, and the prospect of getting in the ring with that walking social disease, Jayson Price, I really needed this. I mean, I thought it would be a little dull, but I'm having a great time.”
“It's about to get better,” he tells her. “I've known of this town for quite some time. This is one of the few places people like us are welcomed; where we don't have to hide what we are. In fact, there's a tradition in this village, dating back centuries: on the night of winter solstice, just before midnight -- well, why should I spoil the surprise? You'll see soon enough.”
His enigmatic smile makes her curious, but he refuses to say more on the subject. Instead, they while away the hours with a few rounds of darts, and several more rounds of drinks. As midnight creeps closer, the patrons filter out, one by one. By half-past, the proprietor rousts the last few, sending the serving staff along to make sure those who had over-indulged got home safe. Once everyone had cleared out, the pub’s owner approaches them again, still all smiles.
“Sir,” he says, nodding to Rabid, then to Bonnie, “my lady, it was so very good of you to accept my invitation. I know the Covenant don't look kindly on our traditions, but they are our ways. You honor our little town in accepting these gifts…”
As he speaks, several sets of footsteps and the rattling of chains draw Bonnie's attention. A group of men, all hard-eyed and sallow-faced, wearing the identical striped uniforms of convicts are led in from the kitchen. The proprietor hastens to free them from leg irons and handcuffs, then hurriedly backs away.
“The worst of the lot, murders and rapists all, just as tradition dictates!” he says. “Happy Solstice!”
And with that, the round-faced man slams the door behind him. An iron key turns a heavy lock with a distinct clunk of finality. Steel shutters drop into place over mullioned windows.
For one long instant, nothing happens. The prisoners exchange puzzled looks. Rabid removes his suit jacket, calmly hanging it on a hook; pulls the links from his shirt cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. Tension crackles, electric, in the charged air. As she picks up her lover's intent through their telepathic bond, Bonnie's eyes darken, just perceptibly; and her dual pair of fangs elongate, ivory tips touching her crimson lips.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Rabid addresses the convicts. “Shall we begin?”
At his cue, all Hell breaks loose. One convict seizes a glass mug and swings violently at Rabid; another launches a closed fist at Bonnie. With the expert precision of trained fighters, each evades the attack, redirecting their opponents to each other. The glass shatters against a skull, while a fist crashes into the other man's nose. Chaos reigns as the others join the fray. Rabid catches a clothesline attempt, traps the arm, and snaps it at the elbow before spinning his assailant around and sending him to crash into an ancient jukebox with a kick to the backside.
Immediately, the jukebox lights up and drops its needle on a vinyl disc: David Bowie's “Heroes.”
The Hardcore Queen blocks a chair swung at her face, knocks it from her attacker’s grasp, and wraps a delicate hand around his throat. Lifting him up, she chokeslams him onto a stout oak table so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs.
Another convict tries sneaking up behind the young goddess while she's busy with his cohort, but is stopped short by the Serpent's hand on his shoulder. Eye to eye with John Rabid, he loses his nerve, shaking his head and pleading for mercy. A wicked grin crosses Rabid's face. He lifts the man up and shoves him against the wall, snapping his spine with a sickening crack.
With savage abandon, Bonnie Blue and John Rabid take on the prisoners still standing, as the music plays on, nearly loud enough to drown out the terrified screams of the men, sentenced to death by their own obscene misdeeds. And soon enough, all is quiet once again, save for the fading strains of the song.
Sunday evening, in the high rise Tesla Corporation offices, Bonnie Blue sits across the desk from Elon Musk. A fat blunt clenched between his teeth, he takes a long hit and holds it, gazing into her sea-blue eyes. Slowly, he exhales a cloud of grey haze.
“So, let me get this straight,” says Musk. “You need to rescue a grown man from inside a woman's vagina? Is that even possible?”
“Yeah, it's dimensionally transcendental or something. Anyway, I need him outta there for a match tomorrow night.”
Musk takes another hit from his blunt.
“Ok, yeah, I can make a sub that'll probably get the job done. But are you sure you're going to want to actually fight this guy? You'll probably need a Hazmat suit, too.”
Bonnie nods in agreement.
“Already taken care of. Ugh. I mean, this dude is the living representation of syphilis. He's the avatar of Herpes. And the sad part? That was before he got with Mama Mustache and broke up an entire family. Don't get me wrong, the whole family's a toxic shitshow, but I feel like Ursula deserves better.”
“Ursula Nabrow-cum-mustache?” he asks, leaning forward with sudden interest.
“First of all, I see what you did there. Secondly, yes. Jayson Price has jammed himself up there and Corey Black is making me wrestle him in an effort to stack the deck in Odin’s favor at One. He thinks by exposing me to the plethora of infections Price is incubating at any given time -- and more, now that he's lost himself up Mama Stache's slick -- that he can even the odds and get Odin back the World Title. The little Nordic bitch hasn't stopped crying about it since Payback and it's honestly fucking pathetic.”
“No doubt,” agrees the inventor. “You earned that belt. An adult would accept it, give you the props you deserve, and move on. It's not as if WCF management isn't going to just hand the Championship back to him the instant you get bored and drop it. Fuck ‘em. Anyway, you have Price to deal with this week. I'll have your sub ready in time for the match. It'll just take a little modification to the design for my tunnel under Los Angeles.”
“Cool. You know where to send the bill.”
Musk nods. “Good luck.”
“Don't need luck, sugar. This is about the man who used to be Mr. Every Title. But he also used to have standards. Not particularly high ones, but standards nonetheless. This isn't the Jayson Price of old -- this is just a washed up old has-been trying to re-establish his name on my reputation. And honey, Bonnie Blue ain't fixing to have that shit. Monday night, I'mma stomp that thick so hard, Ursula Mustache gonna have to find another one-man bang.”
Two figures step out of the mist -- a gentleman in a tailored, charcoal grey suit, and a stunning blonde in a sapphire blue dress, shoulders draped in faux ermine -- immediately recognized by anyone with even a passing interest in professional wrestling: John Rabid and Bonnie Blue, the hottest power couple in the business. Hats are tipped, friendly greetings exchanged, as the evening crowds hurry along home, or to the village pub to escape the growing wintry chill.
Arm in arm, the pair follow a few late stragglers down a narrow lane, to a venerable old brick building with a weather-worn sign dangling from an iron stanchion; on it, an image of a magpie gripping the handle of a beer mug. Someone holds the door open as they duck under the lintel, stepping into a room full of cheery warmth and raucous laughter. Polished wood, hundreds of years old, seems to glow in the light reflected from a large fireplace at one end of the room. A big screen near the bar is playing tonight's edition of Kingdom Pro Wrestling's Saturday night Rampage; nearby, a cluster of locals watch, enrapt, as they cheer on the antics of their favorite superstars.
A short, round-faced man in shirtsleeves and a patched waistcoat that looks as old as the pub itself -- clearly the owner -- smiles broadly and shakes their hands with unbridled enthusiasm.
“Mr. Rabid, Miss Blue, so good of you both to grace us with your presence tonight! Come, come -- I've reserved you a table, if you don't mind,” he chatters at the pair, leading them through the crowd to a booth in the corner.
Bonnie allows the proprietor to remove the faux fur stole from her shoulders, and drape it over a coat hook affixed to the wall. The seats are wooden, shallow and high-backed, but comfortable enough. Savory scents of roasting meat and aromatic herbs drift from the kitchen as a waitress carries plates to another table. The owner hurries off, only to reappear moments later with two heavy stoneware mugs, full to the brim with a dark, frothy porter.
“To whet the appetite,” he tells them, by way of explanation, then excuses himself once more, vanishing into the crowd.
The Time Witch watches him go, an amused smile on her lips. She turns back to find the Serpent gazing at her across the table, dark eyes enchanting in the soft luminescence of a candle. She could lose herself in those eyes forever when he looked at her like that. Blushing slightly, she takes a sip of the rich, strong brew in front of her, enjoying the robust flavor with a newly refined sense of taste.
“Now this is a pub,” Bonnie comments, sea-blue eyes still taking everything in, “Not like that abomination last week. Sorry about that, by the way.”
Rabid shrugs. “It served its purpose. The point was illustrated -- quite well, I think. An eyesore gone, Kennedy Matthews vanquished, and now I have another investment for my portfolio. I'd call that a win.”
He reaches across the table to twine his fingers with hers.
“This is the England I wanted you to see. Not the Downton Abbey tourist traps, not the pop culture shallowness, where everything is tea and crumpets, fish and chips; it's all so played out. London today is a facade, a fabrication of slick advertising executives with no real feel for the culture, for the people. This -- here and now -- this is real. And tonight is special.”
A warm, genuine smile crosses Bonnie's lips as she lifts his hand and kisses his fingers.
“I'm glad you brought me here. After destroying Kennedy Mathews, and the prospect of getting in the ring with that walking social disease, Jayson Price, I really needed this. I mean, I thought it would be a little dull, but I'm having a great time.”
“It's about to get better,” he tells her. “I've known of this town for quite some time. This is one of the few places people like us are welcomed; where we don't have to hide what we are. In fact, there's a tradition in this village, dating back centuries: on the night of winter solstice, just before midnight -- well, why should I spoil the surprise? You'll see soon enough.”
His enigmatic smile makes her curious, but he refuses to say more on the subject. Instead, they while away the hours with a few rounds of darts, and several more rounds of drinks. As midnight creeps closer, the patrons filter out, one by one. By half-past, the proprietor rousts the last few, sending the serving staff along to make sure those who had over-indulged got home safe. Once everyone had cleared out, the pub’s owner approaches them again, still all smiles.
“Sir,” he says, nodding to Rabid, then to Bonnie, “my lady, it was so very good of you to accept my invitation. I know the Covenant don't look kindly on our traditions, but they are our ways. You honor our little town in accepting these gifts…”
As he speaks, several sets of footsteps and the rattling of chains draw Bonnie's attention. A group of men, all hard-eyed and sallow-faced, wearing the identical striped uniforms of convicts are led in from the kitchen. The proprietor hastens to free them from leg irons and handcuffs, then hurriedly backs away.
“The worst of the lot, murders and rapists all, just as tradition dictates!” he says. “Happy Solstice!”
And with that, the round-faced man slams the door behind him. An iron key turns a heavy lock with a distinct clunk of finality. Steel shutters drop into place over mullioned windows.
For one long instant, nothing happens. The prisoners exchange puzzled looks. Rabid removes his suit jacket, calmly hanging it on a hook; pulls the links from his shirt cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. Tension crackles, electric, in the charged air. As she picks up her lover's intent through their telepathic bond, Bonnie's eyes darken, just perceptibly; and her dual pair of fangs elongate, ivory tips touching her crimson lips.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Rabid addresses the convicts. “Shall we begin?”
At his cue, all Hell breaks loose. One convict seizes a glass mug and swings violently at Rabid; another launches a closed fist at Bonnie. With the expert precision of trained fighters, each evades the attack, redirecting their opponents to each other. The glass shatters against a skull, while a fist crashes into the other man's nose. Chaos reigns as the others join the fray. Rabid catches a clothesline attempt, traps the arm, and snaps it at the elbow before spinning his assailant around and sending him to crash into an ancient jukebox with a kick to the backside.
Immediately, the jukebox lights up and drops its needle on a vinyl disc: David Bowie's “Heroes.”
I, I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins
Like dolphins can swim
Though nothing, nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, forever and ever
Oh, we can be heroes just for one day
Like the dolphins
Like dolphins can swim
Though nothing, nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, forever and ever
Oh, we can be heroes just for one day
The Hardcore Queen blocks a chair swung at her face, knocks it from her attacker’s grasp, and wraps a delicate hand around his throat. Lifting him up, she chokeslams him onto a stout oak table so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs.
I, I will be King
And you, you will be Queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be us just for one day.
I, I can remember
(I remember)
Standing by the wall
(By the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads
(Over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
(Nothing could fall)
And you, you will be Queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be us just for one day.
I, I can remember
(I remember)
Standing by the wall
(By the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads
(Over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
(Nothing could fall)
Another convict tries sneaking up behind the young goddess while she's busy with his cohort, but is stopped short by the Serpent's hand on his shoulder. Eye to eye with John Rabid, he loses his nerve, shaking his head and pleading for mercy. A wicked grin crosses Rabid's face. He lifts the man up and shoves him against the wall, snapping his spine with a sickening crack.
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes just for one day.
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes just for one day.
With savage abandon, Bonnie Blue and John Rabid take on the prisoners still standing, as the music plays on, nearly loud enough to drown out the terrified screams of the men, sentenced to death by their own obscene misdeeds. And soon enough, all is quiet once again, save for the fading strains of the song.
We can be heroes
We can be heroes
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be heroes…..
We can be heroes
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be heroes…..
************************************************
Sunday evening, in the high rise Tesla Corporation offices, Bonnie Blue sits across the desk from Elon Musk. A fat blunt clenched between his teeth, he takes a long hit and holds it, gazing into her sea-blue eyes. Slowly, he exhales a cloud of grey haze.
“So, let me get this straight,” says Musk. “You need to rescue a grown man from inside a woman's vagina? Is that even possible?”
“Yeah, it's dimensionally transcendental or something. Anyway, I need him outta there for a match tomorrow night.”
Musk takes another hit from his blunt.
“Ok, yeah, I can make a sub that'll probably get the job done. But are you sure you're going to want to actually fight this guy? You'll probably need a Hazmat suit, too.”
Bonnie nods in agreement.
“Already taken care of. Ugh. I mean, this dude is the living representation of syphilis. He's the avatar of Herpes. And the sad part? That was before he got with Mama Mustache and broke up an entire family. Don't get me wrong, the whole family's a toxic shitshow, but I feel like Ursula deserves better.”
“Ursula Nabrow-cum-mustache?” he asks, leaning forward with sudden interest.
“First of all, I see what you did there. Secondly, yes. Jayson Price has jammed himself up there and Corey Black is making me wrestle him in an effort to stack the deck in Odin’s favor at One. He thinks by exposing me to the plethora of infections Price is incubating at any given time -- and more, now that he's lost himself up Mama Stache's slick -- that he can even the odds and get Odin back the World Title. The little Nordic bitch hasn't stopped crying about it since Payback and it's honestly fucking pathetic.”
“No doubt,” agrees the inventor. “You earned that belt. An adult would accept it, give you the props you deserve, and move on. It's not as if WCF management isn't going to just hand the Championship back to him the instant you get bored and drop it. Fuck ‘em. Anyway, you have Price to deal with this week. I'll have your sub ready in time for the match. It'll just take a little modification to the design for my tunnel under Los Angeles.”
“Cool. You know where to send the bill.”
Musk nods. “Good luck.”
“Don't need luck, sugar. This is about the man who used to be Mr. Every Title. But he also used to have standards. Not particularly high ones, but standards nonetheless. This isn't the Jayson Price of old -- this is just a washed up old has-been trying to re-establish his name on my reputation. And honey, Bonnie Blue ain't fixing to have that shit. Monday night, I'mma stomp that thick so hard, Ursula Mustache gonna have to find another one-man bang.”