Not YOUR Hero (Part 2) Jan 6, 2019 20:21:01 GMT -5 via mobile Doc Henry, Alex Richards, and 1 more like this
Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 6, 2019 20:21:01 GMT -5
Alienation of Affliction
The following document was posted to WikiLeaks on January 4th, 2019, and has not been verified by third-party sources.
Petition for Divorce
Concerning the dissolution of
BRANDI SAVAGE, Plaintiff
BRANDI NOBLE, Defendant
Concerning the dissolution of
BRANDI SAVAGE, Plaintiff
BRANDI NOBLE, Defendant
Submitted before the court of the Honorable Judge COREY BLACK in the County of Philadelphia on this, the 3rd day of January, 2019.
The Plaintiff BRANDI SAVAGE does hereby submit this Petition for Divorce from the Defendant BRANDI NOBLE for the forgoing reasons, to wit:
The defendant is guilty, first and foremost, of insufferable fangirlism. Brandi Noble maintains an inexplicable obsession with opponent Odin Balfore -- despite his lingering career death spiral, waning fan interest, and flagging merchandise sales -- largely for the sake of nostalgia. Like her opponent, Noble is living in a past recalled through a lens of rosy romanticism, ignoring the fact that Balfore was, even at the height of his career, a mediocre talent more suited to throwing drunks out of strip clubs than performing in the ring. Noble’s continuing fascination with her opponent is contributing to laziness, lack of motivation, and adolescent fantasizing. The competitive edge gained from winning War is duller than the wit of Alex Richards.
The defendant, furthermore, displays an empathy bordering on infatuation with World Champion Bonnie Blue. While the plaintiff shares a certain degree of admiration for the accomplishments of her fellow Guardian, the defendant fails to appreciate fully the fact that Ms. Blue is, in actuality, an opponent. As such, the defendant's misplaced affections serve to further distract from the overall goal.
Likewise, Brandi Noble is easily distracted by her own inability to make her own decisions or take responsibility for herself. Instead, she allows herself to be continually misled by one Lady Abernathy, whose origins and intentions are unknown to both parties. While the defendant has complete faith in Abernathy, the plaintiff remains suspicious. The time has come for Brandi Noble to choose one or the other; Abernathy or the Savage. A woman cannot serve two masters. Noble needs to sack Lady Abernathy and hire Lady Marmalade. She won't help her win, but the dance moves will be fabulous.
Noble is unfocused, has failed to capitalize on winning War, and has instead begun to focus on irrelevant matters while ignoring tasks at hand. In short, she has all the intellectual swagger of a house brick. She would rather complain endlessly about the inane ramblings of Lord Raab and his pet sycophant, or indulge in her seven-hundred and seventy-seventh viewing of The Craft, than spend even a moment training for the biggest pay-per-view event of the year.
Noble calls herself a "soul witch" which is basically what a fifteen year old girl comes up with when she doesn't understand the concept of intellectual property. Her delusion originates from the fact that each month, Noble believes her connection to the spirit world is confirmed by the strange stigmata that occurs between her legs, clearly confirming her connection to a higher purpose.
Often, she bottles the incandescent liquid which she plans on using eventually as a basis for a jam.
A series of malfeasances, all of which are detrimental to the stated purpose of Noble Savage -- to destroy everything in our way on the path to seizing the WCF World Title. Therefore, the plaintiff seeks permanent separation from the defendant in the belief that a figment of Brandi Noble’s imagination stands a better chance of winning the One main event than Brandi Noble herself.
The preceding document was sworn before the Honorable Judge COREY BLACK on this date, in the year Two-Thousand Nineteen.
H E A R T of Darkness:
November 20, 2018
“You don't know what you're asking of me, Bonnie.”
They faced each other across an expanse of antique Persian rug. Twelfth Century. Hand-woven silk thread in intricate geometric patterns, bordered with a floral motif. The color was deep and rich, in burgundy, gold, and green. An antique dealer might've taken it for a reproduction piece, but Bonnie Blue knew better. A man like John Rabid had expensive taste and a discerning eye; there was no fooling him, and may the gods help anyone who tried.
Bonnie leaned back in the Nineteenth Century leather wingback chair, idly swirling tawny port in a Waterford glass as she looked at him.
“John,” she said, her voice low and urgent, “I wouldn't even dream of askin’ if there were any other way. They say my next match will be my last. I'm dyin’, John.”
She took a sip from the glass to steady her nerves, then added in a whisper “...and I'm afraid.”
Was that a hint of sympathy she glimpsed in those dark eyes, somewhere behind that cold, calculating gaze? He sat forward and put a reassuring hand on hers.
“Look, there's a clinic in Switzerland. I can fly you out tonight on a private jet. I'll engage every specialist I can find. But this thing you're asking -- I will not do. Not to you, Bonnie. You don't understand how it changes a person. And immortality is far more burden than gift.”
“No, John, you don't understand. I'm outta time and out of options. No doctor on Earth or anywhere else can help me now. It goes back to that night in Denmark. And after, at the Rock of Ages. Something went wrong with the regeneration and it's finally catching up with me.”
She jerked her hand away, and he sat back, studying her in troubled silence. Bonnie sipped at the port and gazed into the flames burning in the wide marble fireplace.
“I won't even make it to Payback,” she murmured. “My last chance at the WCF World Title; the opportunity my friends -- and even Stephen Singh -- fought so hard to make sure I got… all for nothing.”
Rabid had the grace to glance away as Bonnie wiped at tears that stung her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
“That title shot was all I had left,” she explained. “UCI gone. AW nearly killed my career. Lost the love of my life. Hell, even the Guardians don't need me anymore -- long past time for Alex to take the wheel. My only hope was stepping to Odin Balfore one more time, to make up for months of humiliation at his hands, and finally claim the World Title for my own. Just to hold it once -- that's all I wanted. Now it all seems so petty and selfish and small. I guess what it comes down to is: I ain't ready to die.”
“Can't you go back to the Rock?” John asked. “If it's a problem with the regeneration --”
“Don't you think I tried that?” she snapped with sudden vehemence. “I've been up there a dozen times since this all started -- including today, before I came to you -- and nothing happened. Maybe it was a one-shot kinda deal, I dunno, but it don't work now. That's the only reason I'm here, asking you to save my life. Then again… this is what you always wanted, ain't it? Reckon at least this way, your hands stay clean.”
Scowling at that, Rabid rose abruptly from his chair, towering over her.
“That's not fair, Bonnie! For one thing, if I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this discussion, and deniability would be the least of my concerns. I could've ended you a hundred times before now, and I haven't yet, so don't you dare suggest this is about some meagre vengeance! I am trying to help you, Bonnie, but what you're asking is out of the question! You have my offer. Take it, or leave it.”
The Time Witch was quiet, staring thoughtfully into the last bit of honey-colored wine in her glass. After a while, she drained it, sighed, and stood up.
“You're right, John: it wasn't fair of me to say that. I overreacted. But the fact is, I'm beyond anything medical science can do. We both know that. It would be a waste of my time and your resources. I understand why you're reluctant, too. So I won't trouble you anymore. Thanks for the drink.”
Bonnie handed him the glass, suddenly calm. Too calm, and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion as she pulled on her coat and stalked to the door. R-7, her android butler and protector, followed in her wake. Rabid halted the android with a single word, and in low tones, issued a series of commands, to which the machine nodded acknowledgment.
“Protocol override One Six One One Delta confirmed,” it replied in smooth, electronic tones. “New parameters accepted. Shall I follow her, sir?”
“Yes,” Rabid said. “Passive observation only. Reports at half-hour intervals.”
The android confirmed his new orders, then hurried out the door after the Time Witch. The Serpent watched them go, wondering what she was up to. He had a sinking feeling he already knew: the Covenant. She would go to them next, and once they realized who she was -- what she meant to him -- Bonnie Blue wouldn't be coming back alive.
Heart and Soul
The Wells Fargo arena is already packed with thousands of excited fans, even early in the day. WCF's biggest event of the year never fails to draw record numbers. But this year, attendance is at an unprecedented level -- because this year is unlike any other before. Several pre-show meet and greet events are scheduled throughout the day, but most notable among them -- so popular that a section of concourse had to be curtained off to accommodate the overwhelming, record-shattering number of fans -- is the session with the current reigning World Champion herself: Bonnie Blue.
On a raised stage, dressed in a tailored suit of dark grey and a deep pink silk camisole, her hard-won WCF World Title draped over her shoulder and a microphone in hand, she looks out over the massive crowd. A smile tugs at her lips as she spots dozens wearing her newly released “Serpentine” hoodie: black, with a snake logo over the left breast; the word picked out along the back in iridescent lettering, the “S” in the shape of a striking snake. Other fans are wearing sets of exclusive WCF-branded customizable fangs -- available only at shop.WCF.com -- or carrying plastic replica belts of their own; and all of them clutching eight-by-ten photos, posters, or the latest edition of the SWERVE and Sharpie markers, waiting with breathless anticipation to get Bonnie's autograph.
“Ayyy, Dub-See-Eff --- Philadelphia! -- how y'all doin’’?”
The crowd gives a loud cheer, and she favors them with a radiant smile.
“Yeah -- HELL YEAH! Here we are, come together for ONE night! ONE main event! ONE World Championship -- the only one that matters! The biggest prize, the grandest stage, the most important night in professional wrestling; and in spite of the efforts of my opponents, in spite of the terrible booking by management, that spotlight falls squarely on Bonnie muthafuckin’ Blue!
For weeks, ever since Payback, all I been hearing -- all anybody been hearing -- is my opponents whining about how I didn't deserve this title for one reason or another! Odin Balfore keeps saying the same damn thing over and over, and what it amounts to is he's just mad that he put forth minimal effort, and got his ass stomped into the canvas for it! But y'all know what?
FUCK Odin Balfore! He ain't worth me wasting another word. Dude ain't nothing but a broken record, playing the same tired, old tune. I've had my say and the funniest part? I ain't even gotta bury that second-rate fuccboi -- he done dug his own grave already! He didn't check himself, and like the saying goes, he #wrekt himself! Odin Balfore -- who the fuck is that?
Nah, but see, he ain’t the only chump been running his mouth without actually saying a damn thing! We got little miss pipe wrench out here every week, crying about this ain't fair. She won WAR, she beat Odin that one time, and then another time on a questionable technicality, and on and on. It's grating on the nerves after a while, y'know?
Yeah, it was supposed to be you and me -- you think I'm any happier about it? It ain't fair, but the Dub ain't never been about what's fair. The Dub is about what sells tickets -- and sugar, that ain't you. How long you think you can carry this company with that ‘Cleric of Order’ gimmick?
As a matter of fact, what the fuck even are you? Cleric of Order? Soul Witch? Guardian? Or just some schizophrenic who's one lost match away from digging through a dumpster for food?
If Noble Savage had a movie made about her life it would be an origin tale entitled "Baglady Begins." Ten years from now she'll be living in a shed with Dion Necurat wondering how to best fry up a rat.
Having looked up "Noble Savage" on Urban Dictionary, I've discovered it's a euphemism for someone who's "a needy twat who comes up with a mental disorder to garner sympathy."
Honestly, there's nothing funny about mental illness, and Brandi Noble’s attempt to cash in on it is every bit as unconscionable as Sammy McForeskin’s pantomime autism -- but at least he's too stupid to know better.
Maybe Brandi is, too. She can't make up her own mind, and without the Savage part of her, she would be entirely unmotivated to do more than sit around in cemetaries writing poetry that would embarrass a seventh-grader. Without Abernathy yanking on her strings now and again, Noble would flutter off whichever way the wind blows. She lacks the mindset of a wrestler and the discipline of a champion.
Yes, Savage won WAR -- but what has she really done since?
She wants to bring up how she beat me one time -- by disqualification! Yeah that's something to brag about! She wants to claim I got myself disqualified because I was afraid of her, but the fact is she just wasn't worth my time. It was true then, it's just as true now.
You know, but even after that, Noble, Alex Richards and I gave you the chance of a lifetime. We included you on our Hellimination team -- not just because you had a victory over Odin Balfore -- we brought you into the Guardians; because we both saw something in you.
I guess we were wrong.
If you had shown the slightest inclination toward actual talent, or a work ethic, or anything but textbook sloth, I would have asked you to join me on this path. The Soul Witch and the Time Witch, eternally linked; the sister I never had -- but for these few brief months -- and you're going to judge me because of who I love?
Accuse me of simply using you? Use me as the excuse for reverting to the talentless hack you were before the Guardians pulled you out of the mud? That stings, sister of mine, it really does.
I thought you were smarter than that; or at least more “Noble.”
But nah, go ahead. Listen to Odin. Give him the satisfaction of believing his “I-told-you-sos” -- because that's the only satisfaction he's getting tonight. It's all right. You're birds of a feather, Noble Savage and Odin Balfore. Both the kind to rely on past accomplishments, without bothering to improve. He loves a follower in blind faith, someone who won't peek beneath his tighty-whities to see that the “THICK” in his jock ain’t nothing more than a rolled up tube sock; and you, Noble? Why bother thinking for yourself when you can get someone else to do it for you?
Yeah, this really does explain your adolescent fascination with Odin Balfore. The two of you are perfect for each other. A preening peacock and a delusional fangirl.
You're both useless cunts.”
Enthralled by her charisma, hanging on her every word, the crowd gives her another big pop.
“I know, the WCF Galaxy is tired of that same mediocrity, week after week; month after month. And that's all another Odin Balfore title reign would be -- just more of the same. And would y'all expect any better outta Noble Savage, with her nose buried so far up ol’ Odin's brown-eye, all she can see is shit? Nah. You can't expect a damn thing outta her.
Can't expect much outta Alex Richards, neither -- speaking of useless cunts. The guy is so fucking clueless, he utterly failed to recognize his moment when it came. He declared the Guardians dead and me a traitor, when all I did was step outta the way so Alex Richards could step up and be the leader i always knew he could be.
But you didn't step up, Alex; you ran.
Did I run off crying when Jay Omega abandoned us? When Polar Phantasm sold us out?
Nah, motherfucker, I stepped UP, ‘cause I was sick of getting stepped ON, ya feel me? I took charge of the Guardians, and I led us to more victories, more collective title reigns, and higher prestige than ANY other faction in this business -- and that includes Pantheon!
That's right! The Guardians were, and still are, superior to Pantheon in every way!
Now the Guardians need a new leader, and where are you, Alex?
Crying into your boot of ZimQuila, and over what? What did I do that was so damn bad? You gave me some line the next week about how I didn't show up for your victory party, and ok that was my bad. I shoulda called. But honestly, you're gonna carry a grudge about that? Or is it that I'm involved with John Rabid that gets under your skin?
It didn't bother you a bit when I partnered with David Sanchez -- since your ass couldn't be bothered to come back to the Dub with me -- and we took the tag titles that coulda belonged to the Guardians! It didn't even enter that thick skull of yours that we coulda been undefeated tag champs here, like we were back at You-See-Eye; and spared everybody the shame and embarrassment of the fucktard Monstimals -- seriously what kinda fucking name is that for a tag team? -- having those straps at all, let alone for the months that they dragged them through the festering shit in their wake, making a mockery of the entire division!
All because you were too fucking scared to jump back in at the Dub until some of the higher-tier competition went away. That's Alex Richards for ya. The perpetual could-have-been -- if he wasn't such a deadweight!
Alex Richards is such a dead weight, he could be out maneuvered by his own action figure. All you have to do is wave boot full of battery acid in front of his face and he's anyone's.
Alex is not a champion. There's a very real reason Howard Black can't get over that title loss in UCI. If you lose to Alex Richards it means you've probably just suffered an aneurysm.
No one has to watch a Alex Richards promo, it's always the same. He rambles, he procrastinates. He occasionally tries for a zinger. Alex Richards's entire shtick is to look like a pedophile. When you make that kind of life choice you really don't have a fucking clue what it means to be a combat sports figurehead.
This is a man who clings to whoever he thinks can elevate him above the level of absolute garbage -- but not too high, or else people will start to expect too much of him. Like rational thought, complete sentences, or a pinfall that didn't involve the big goon simply tripping over his own feet and somehow managing to land on top of his opponent.
I have it on good authority that's also his lovemaking strategy. Which makes his girlfriend the only blind person in history whose life was made worse by regaining the ability to see.
Alex Richards, with a face like an over sexed blowfish, is the saddest tinder profile ever conceived.
Alex Richards is the answer to the question, "what would a thumb do if it took the place of a head on a regular human body?"
And that, in fairness, is giving him far too much credit.
These feckless twats who, collectively, couldn't muster the charisma of a garden slug are the same people saying I don't deserve to carry this title. That I'm not worthy to lead this company.
Who has overcome more adversity than I have?
Did Alex Richards struggle -- and succeed -- to make Leon Hayze look like a worthwhile competitor for three weeks before finally stuffing the grossly abused corpse of his long-since forgotten career into a bodybag? Did he claim the hardcore title in the process, and make it mean something more than the last ray of hope before premature retirement?
Did Noble Savage trek halfway across the world to find the perfect tag partner in one of her oldest and most hated rivals, just to elevate the tag division from the muck and mire that those fat fucks William and Ainsley had let it become?
Did Odin Balfore do literally anything aside from running his mouth, failing to back it up, and at one point losing the World Title to Adam fucking Young?”
The Champ is obliged to hesitate as the fans respond to her questions with a resounding “NO!!!”
“Nah, y'all goddess-damned right! You know who DID do all that? Ya girl, Bonnie Blue! I am the primary reason that WCF is still going. Nobody gives a damn about Balfore getting yet another run at the World Title. Ain't nobody interested in seeing Alex Richards flail around like a bloated, alcoholic manatee. And for damn sure, not one of y'all wants to see this company under the direction of a lunatic fangirl with all the verbal ingenuity of a spastic colon.
Bonnie Blue IS WCF! This is MY company, this is MY WORLD, and this Championship is staying right where it belongs -- around MY waist!”
And with that final statement, another cheer rises from the collected fans, as their champion wades into the crowd to start signing autographs.
H E A R T of Darkness:
January 6th, 2019
Nearly a week had passed since the New Year's party of the decade, Bonnie Blue and John Rabid were enjoying a relatively quiet evening together. Accustomed to living in hotels, or the spare room above the Drunken Dragon, Bonnie was now at the top of her game, as her and John spent time at Rabid’s rural retreat. With a smile creeping across her face, she knew that nothing could derail her title reign as it continued unabated, with The Time Witch’s stranglehold over the federation becoming ever more undeniable with each passing day. Even Odin Balfore feared her now, sending his putrid, yellow toothed lackey, Zombie McMorris out on a internet scouting mission to play pitiful mind games, a tactic that fell flat at the feet of a rather smug Serpent. All the while, Bonnie was getting used to her new lifestyle, adapting, becoming ever more stronger. The mansion the power couple now occupied personified her new, almost regal position. The stately home they walked though was huge, far too spacious for the two people who now strolled it’s vast hallways. Even in a dozen lifetimes, this place could still surprise; a well-appointed and lavishly decorated environment, all owing to his exquisite taste and the expertise of a team of interior designers, art dealers, and antiques specialists. Bonnie gazed through a large double window, out over an expanse of perfectly kept lawn, dusted with a layer of frost that sparkled under the wan moonlight like millions of tiny jewels.
Bonnie sensed his approach through the subtle bond they shared, leaned against him with a contented sigh as he slipped an arm around her waist and gently kissed her neck. Rabid took her by the hand and led her away from the tall floor-to-ceiling window.
“I want to show you something,” he said, as he guided her through a series of hallways and, finally, into a large, oak-paneled room.
Framed certificates, golden plaques, and replicas of titles previously won -- including the WCF World Title -- lined the walls, sharing space with photos of John Rabid with a variety of high profile celebrities, sports figures, and politicians. Prominent among them was a picture of John receiving his history making knighthood. Even in a staged still image, with John kneeling before the Queen, the Serpent appeared the more dominant of the two, relegating the monarch to the role of kindly old grandmother, an extra rather than the figurehead of a nation whose empire once spanned the globe, successful though the efforts of the immortal that now bowed politely, awaiting his prize. An enormous baroque desk took up a solid third of the space, facing a fireplace of marble, the mantel supported by a pair of graven nymphs. Above the cozy blaze, a snarling wolfs head glared at the pair, firelight reflected as a crimson glow in glass eyes that looked more human than animal. With a shudder of revulsion, the Time Witch turned away and tried to ignore it.
Taking a key from the vest of his three-piece suit, John unlocked a hidden door that led to a much smaller room beyond the study. Light flooded the enclosed space at the flip of a switch, revealing walls crowded with photographs in black and white; older images in sepia tone; and positively archaic tin-types. Bonnie recognized the figures in the overwhelming majority of the images: a graceful, elegant woman, equally at home in the Victorian era as she had been in the new millennium; and a solemn little boy, almost exactly his father in miniature -- who gradually matured from one photo to the next into a mischievous young adult, a proud man with a family of his own, and in later years, a stoic officer in His Majesty's armed forces.
Bonnie examined pictures of Emily, John, and Dorian in various exotic locations: India, Africa, South America, and a few she couldn't readily identify. In several shots, the family stood beside strange machinery, marvels of steam-powered technology whose purpose the young goddess could only guess at. Emily perched on top of something that looked like a submarine resting on treaded tracks, a pair of protective goggles pushed up on her brow and a wrench in one hand, beaming with pride; her face was a little older, but she was aging with all the grace that could be expected of a woman so refined. A progression of formal photos showed Dorian in a school uniform, growing to resemble John more with each passing year, though his bright eyes and his cheerful smile were clearly his mother's influence. There were pictures of Dorian in a tuxedo, hand-in-hand with a slender, fair-haired woman in a long, white dress and a lace-trimmed veil; later pictures of the same woman with an infant in her arms, or young children at her feet, only a year or two apart in age. More intimate images of one or the other of those children on John Rabid's knee, the little girl reaching a curious hand to his beard; the boy, fast asleep with his head on John's shoulder.
The Time Witch studied each photo with a growing sense of wonder, and a new appreciation for the depth of John Rabid's character. He was anything but the monster she'd, until recently, taken him for. She glanced at him in curiosity, her question unspoken, but he answered it anyway.
“I loved them more than anything. It was a little awkward, at first -- I suppose that's the nature of time travel -- but we had so many amazing years together. Emily passed before the Great War started. Dorian enlisted, worked his way through the ranks, but ultimately, he was killed leading the charge against a German machine gun nest. It was brave and reckless, but he turned the tide of the battle that day,” he explained.
“Why are you telling me all this?” she wondered.
“Because,” the Serpent replied, “you gave me my family back. You gave me a lifetime of joy beyond reckoning, and you didn't owe me that. I know you did it for them, and not for me, and that makes it all the more meaningful. So, I guess what I'm trying to say, Bonnie, is thank you.”
A smile played across her lips as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She resisted the urge to kiss him; it didn't seem appropriate, not here, in this moment.
“I should thank you, too,” she told him. “You saved my life -- and more than that. You saved my career.”
“No, I didn’t do a damn thing, you took charge of an impossible situation and you turned it around. That’s what champions do. They face adversity and they discover a solution. An Odin Balfore will never understand that. He has all the physical attributes to just win on auto pilot and he thinks that’s enough. It isn’t. Being seven feet tall doesn’t make Odin a champion, what it makes him is the winner of a genetic lottery with a participation prize at the end. If anything, Odin has weakened the prestige of the belt, not strengthened it. But of course, he can’t have that, so he cries like a fucking bitch about how big bad John Rabid changed all the rules. What a whiny cunt. All I did was even the odds. And look what happened on an even playing field. He lost. And he can’t get over that. Because Odin Balfore has never faced an equal. Until now.”
“Well, I have to correct you on one point, hon,” Bonnie said, her smile turning viperous. “Bonnie Blue ain't no equal to Odin Balfore -- I'm better, in every single way. Alex Richards and Noble Savage don't even enter into the equation. They may be variables, but they ain't factors. Nothing but mediocrity, and that's why WCF is in need of saving. And just like at Payback, this young goddess is the deliverance WCF needs!
Tomorrow night, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Bonnie Blue is fixing to show the whole world why I'm the WCF World Champion!”