Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 10, 2016 16:42:14 GMT -5
It had come again last night: the Dream. Never the same, not quite, little details changed here and there. One element remained, always -- the pursing dark thing. It came without haste, yet was ever but a step behind. It took whatever form it liked, if any at all. And there was never any doubt in Bonnie's mind that it bore her no goodwill; what it might do if it caught her was a matter of no small trepidation.
This time, it does catch up to her. Bonnie runs through a landscape of shattered ice, frigid and night-black. The shape behind her is blacker still, absorbing the wan light of winter stars. And suddenly, she finds herself cornered. With nowhere to go, Bonnie turns to confront the thing that hunts her, only to find it expanding to fill her field of vision. She is seized about the throat by some unseen force that constricts with inexorable slowness. As the pressure around her neck increases, the black shape condenses itself down to form something manlike in appearance; something with fathomless dark eyes, cruel lips turned up in a mocking smile...
The stack lowers with a clank! as Bonnie's focus wavers, jolting her from the reverie. Perspiration stands out on her brow, and she extricates her arms from the butterfly machine to reach for her towel. Only it's not hers, she realizes; in fact, the bag at her feet is full of stuff she doesn't recognize. It takes the young woman a moment to realize what's happened. Quickly, she grabs her phone and dials a number.
Bonnie Blue: Hey, Pierce... I think we switched bags in the locker room after Slam last Sunday. Can you meet me at my motel?
There's a pause as she listens to his reply.
Bonnie Blue: I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. My car keys are in there. You know, for the Ranchero...
Another brief pause.
Bonnie Blue: Ok, yeah. I'm heading back now, so I'll be waiting when you get there. Sorry to put you to all this trouble... Say hi to Kat for me. Ok, thanks. See ya!
Inside of two hours, Grayson Pierce has come and gone, and Bonnie is behind the wheel of the Ranchero. The powerful machine cuts through a dozen timelines with ease as she glances at the dog-eared business card in her hand. She shouldn't do it, she knows. It's not really any of her business, except...
Except she'd been drawn in.
The Staples Center was packed, and while the cheering throng was enthralled with the action in the ring, Bonnie Blue is watching on a monitor backstage. Skin scrubbed pink and hair still dripping from the shower, she winced in sympathy at the brutality being inflicted by Mikey eXtreme on Chelsea Armstrong. She'd been there, on the wrong side of the ring from him, and knew well what he was capable of.
And later, when Bonnie had come upon Chelsea, abandoned by the medics, she felt compelled to remain, so she'd at least have some company. The poor woman had to be out of it; she appeared to be speaking with someone who wasn't even there. Without warning, a hand shot out, grasping the front of Bonnie's shirt to pull her in close. Armstrong's words came out in a harsh whisper, jumbled and barely coherent; but the Daughter of Time had understood enough.
A cold chill ran up her spine, and Bonnie glanced up to see Johnny Rabid staring directly at her. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before he turned his attention back to his conversation -- with none other than company owner Seth Lerch. When Bonnie looked again at Chelsea, she had lapsed again into unconsciousness. Gently, Bonny reached out to brush a strand of hair from the other woman's brow as a look of deep contemplation etched itself upon her face.
Could she believe what Armstrong had told her? Judging by the things she'd seen, it was possible; maybe even likely. Bonnie had never been comfortable around Rabid, and his prowess in the ring wasn't the only reason. What sort of man -- well, that was the point, wasn't it? Bonnie watched him surreptitiously until the medics returned to take charge of their patient at last, depriving her of an excuse to hang around. For a second, she thought about confronting him, now, in front of Lerch. But no. Not yet. Not without more to go on. What she needed was a little more time...
She was the kinda dame that made you do a double-take -- twice. Dame, hell! What was I thinkin'? Girl was so young, if you slipped her a Mickey, she'd sprout mouse ears and start singin' "Its a Small World." I gave her another once-over and started to question my sanity. Her face hadn't lost the smooth roundness of youth, pale pink lips full and set in a wry little smile that spoke of a much older woman. She had a pair of gams that wouldn't quit, cased in stockings with a seam up the back. A sapphire blue dress ended at the knee, the hem subtly frilly; her shoulders draped in a matching bolero. There was something about the way her clothes fit -- a certain tightness across the shoulders of her jacket, and sleeves that failed to conceal the shape of sculpted muscle beneath -- that screamed athlete. She was the whole package, complete with a wide-brimmed ladies' fedora perched at a rakish angle. Was "rakish" the right word for a skirt? Maybe it was coquettish.
The sun cast horizontal bars of shadow and light across the young lady in a dramatic fashion, setting the mood, so I played along. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my shoes on the desk and struck a match to a fresh Cuban -- I'd gotten a couple of boxes from a very grateful client -- as I regarded her in silence, waiting. People, especially dames, tended to spill their guts if you were quiet long enough. Ah, but girl she might be, she knew how to play the game, too. Never flinching, even when I blew a cloud of smoke right at her, she kept those blue-green peepers locked onto mine.
"Well?" I growled, cursing myself for letting impatience get the better of me.
The girl beamed at me, and it was like the sun had gone out of the sky and into my office. I was entranced, snared.
"I understand you're a man who knows how to find things out, Mr. Minella," she told me, nevermind that the words Private Investigator on my door made that a foregone conclusion.
"You have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?"
"Blue," she said. "Bonnie Blue."
"Miss Blue." I nodded. "For a price, sure. What's your game, sister? Need somebody found? Boyfriend run out on you?"
She smiled again, this time with the warmth of a winter's fire, and I imagined I could smell gingerbread baking. There was a slight flexing of the biceps beneath her sleeves.
"No, nothin' like that. I need to know everything you can find out about this man."
Out of nowhere, she produced a small photograph and slid it across the desk. I leaned forward and looked it over. He didn't seem like anything special. It was a promotional shot, all muscles and a shiny belt slung over one shoulder, cocky look on his face. A fighter, or my name ain't Sal Minella. And so was she, unless I missed my guess -- and I never do.
"Fighters don't usually hire a Seamus," I said, giving a voice to my musings. I shot her my most pointed look; she caught it in midair and threw it back. This skirt was danger with a capital Damn! "All right, all right. You want background on this mug, that's a thousand upfront, plus expenses and dailies. If you want surveillance, too -- "
"No. He'll get wise to that very quickly, Mr. Minella. Johnny Rabid is no fool."
I hesitated. No wonder the picture looked familiar. Still, if all she wanted was some information...
"Double," I said, and poured myself a shot of scotch from the bottle I kept on the desk. "Two thousand plus expenses."
I knocked the drink back and poured another. The girl shrugged and reached into her jacket. I tensed -- until I saw the corner of a manila envelope as she drew it out and dropped it on the desk.
"That should cover it," she told me in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "I'll expect to hear from you very soon."
Brian Setzer is waiting for Bonnie as she pulls into a parking spot behind the PNC Arena, his ears laid back and his tail puffed up, in spite of the warm weather. He stops his impatient pacing and hurries to the car.
Brian Setzer: Where have you been? Hank's looking for you!
The young woman's brow furrows.
Bonnie Blue: Didn't he say he was pickin' up somethin' crazy on his sensors and he was gonna go check it out?
The bipedal feline shakes his head.
Brian Setzer: No, the other one. I think he wants you for an interview.
Bonnie Blue: Oh... I see. Hey, wait a minute.. Why are you hanging around out here? What if somebody sees you?
He shrugs.
Brian Setzer: Most people can't deal with me, so they pretend I don't exist. The ones who can think I'm a Furry -- whatever the hell that means. Some chick gave me her phone number and invited me to something called a "scritching party".
Bonnie Blue: Oh.. my.. gods...
Brian Setzer: What? Is that bad? What is it?
Bonnie Blue: It's uh... I'm pretty sure that's their version of an orgy.
Brian Setzer: Wow. Score. Do you think I should bring catnip? Is that a thing they do?
Bonnie Blue: Dude... they're not really anthropomorphic animals. They're just humans in plushy suits.
Brian Setzer: I'm pretty sure that girl was a kitsune, actually. But whichever, I don't care. I'm gettin' laid!
Bonnie Blue: But... what about... are you sure you know what you're doing?
Brian Setzer: Do you know how boring it is to wait in the motel, by myself, while you're at a show? I must've seen every porno there is by now. I think I can figure it out.
Bonnie Blue: I did not need to know that. Ok, well, you have fun. Use protection. Don't get arrested. Remember that no means no. I'm gonna go find Zmac and see what drugs he has that might erase this conversation from my brain.
Brian Setzer: Better see Hank first. Can I take the Ranchero?
The blonde digs into her pocket and flings them; the keys describe a shimmering arc through the air and drop neatly into the cat's outstretched hand.
Bonnie Blue: Don't scratch the paint!
The Ranchero roars to life, drowning out her words. Brian Setzer peels out of the parking lot and merges into the light Sunday afternoon traffic. Bonnie watches until he rounds a corner, disappearing from sight, and then wanders inside -- where she nearly runs right into a hurrying Hank Brown.
Bonnie Blue: Whoa... sorry 'bout that, Hank. Ooh, look at you, all dressed up. Got a hot date?
Indeed, our intrepid interviewer is dressed in charcoal gray slacks, crisply pressed, and a black silk shirt tailored to make him appear slimmer. His face lacks the usual three-day stubble, his hair is neatly styled, and he reeks of expensive aftershave. He gazes at Bonnie, uncomprehending, for a moment, and then seems to recover with an easy smile.
Hank Brown: Bonnie! I was looking for you!
Bonnie Blue: I know. What's up?
Hank Brown: Interview time. The suits upstairs want you to do these things more by the book.
Bonnie Blue: You mean the talent relations people, don't you?
He nods in agreement, though his face remains oddly neutral.
Bonnie Blue: Can't really argue with that. Where do you want to do this?
Hank Brown: Over here... got a backdrop set up and everything.
The young woman allows herself to be led around a corner, where a wide sheet of black canvas bearing a repeated WCF motif in lime green has been draped over part of the wall; and someone with a camera waits patiently, making little adjustments to the equipment as Bonnie and Hank step into the shot.
Hank Brown: Well, Bonnie, you've got yourself another shot at the Television Championship currently held by Dustin Beaver -- but so do your two partners, Joseph Malignaggi and Grayson Pierce. How's that going to affect your teamwork?
Bonnie looks thoughtful for a moment, raising a hand to her chin, forefinger resting against her lips as she considers.
Bonnie Blue: You get right into it, don't ya, Hank? Well, it's like this... I know for a fact Pierce has my back; an' I got his. But I know nothin' personally about Joseph Malignaggi. I mean, I know who he is, what he's achieved in the relatively short duration he's been with the comp'ny. I intend no disprespect to the man at all. It's just that we've barely met. Pass him in the hall between matches, the guy don't say nothin'. His work speaks for itself, so I ain't worried -- but at the same time, I know he's the biggest threat in that ring. I don't reckon he wants somethin' so triflin' -- to him -- as the TV Title; but I doubt he'd turn it down, either.
An' Grayson, well... He's had titles before. Some arguably more prestigious, more... meanin'ful. In this case, it's a matter of principle. At this point, his interest in the TV Title is mainly gettin' it away from Beaver simply to prove it can be done. It can. An' maybe Livewire is just the man to do it. But...
This is the fourth time I've had that thing dangled in front of me, like a steak before a starvin' dog. An' I ain't even got close yet. I mean, maybe I woulda got it off Andre Jenson, back when he had it, if'n Oblivion hadn't interfered. Then again, that ain't worth speculatin' about. It's over, done, in the past. It's three times I'll be facin' Dustin Beaver -- an' twice in a situation like this.
Hank Brown: Things didn't work out so well the first time.
Bonnie Blue: No, an' that was my own damned fault, plain an' simple. I didn't reckon on just how vicious that boy was, how committed to the #BeachKrew ethos -- if y'can call it that. Then again, I didn't reckon the little bastard was gonna literally try an' murder me on live TV. That second time... that was a group effort, on both sides, an' the rest of the Krew made damn sure Beaver was protected. So even though Preecha Kamon got the pin, we all came away empty-handed.
Hank Brown: And this time?
Bonnie Blue: We've danced this dance already. Some of the participants are different. There are fewer of us. The dynamics have changed. There's tension in the beachhouse. But me and Pierce are solid, come what may. Mr. Malignaggi might not even have to show up.
And Dustin... the champ -- he dismisses the one person who wants this more than anything. Really, it's beyond principle by now. How many times can you be offered the same title and fail? I can't go through that again, Hank. You'd think one of them would have been smart enough to understand that. But no. Dustin talked a lot about Joseph Malinaggi, and I can't blame him for that. He's the obvious one. More experience, more wins, more titles than me or Grayson. And, well, Dustin had a fair few things to say about him, too.
But me? I'm beneath his notice? Well, not entirely. Still under his skin enough he wants to finish the job he started that first time. Like I'm not accustomed to death threats. As if I haven't been living with them from the first time I dared to so much as say "Howdy" to Sharkboy. Back before he got that convenient injury that keeps him from ever having to actually set foot in the ring with me. That's beside the point. Point is... death threats from #BeachKrew have a way of gettin' old after a while.
No, that isn't the point. The point is, I'm not walkin' outta that ring without the Television Title. Not this damn time. I've suffered too much humiliation at the hands of that sadistic son of a bitch, an' I am not takin' any more. It's way past time for some payback, an' I can't think of a better way than deprivin' Dustin Beaver of his most prized possession -- the very thing that bought his way into #BeachKrew -- the WCF Television Title. It's comin' home with Bonnie Blue this time!
Hank Brown: Dustin isn't your only competition, though. There are the tag team champions to consider.
Bonnie Blue: Right you are, Hank. I hadn't forgotten. Rabid an' Kemp. Again. Gods know they ain't the champs without reason. Damn, the way they retained their belts at One was honestly breathtaking. But Kyle Kemp, Hank, I gotta tell ya... that guy's startin' to scare me. He's just brutal these days. I mean, there have been occasions where he made Mikey eXtreme look...downright tame! Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. But there's something... odd about him.
Hank Brown: What do you mean?
Bonnie Blue: Like... ever since he's been partners with Rabid, he's changed. A little at a time, so's y'almost wouldn't notice it. Honestly, I wouldn't have, if'n I hadn't been goin' through a "Best Of" compilation on the WCF Network. An' here's this guy, this former baseball player who decided that wrestlin' was a good transition to make somehow. That partic'lar logic escapes me, but I can't blame the guy. What we do is more'n a career -- it's a callin', in a lot of ways. But y'know, here's Kemp, just doin' his thing, an' along comes Rabid like some kind of serpent in the garden. Next thing ya know, Kemp's got this whole aggression thing. Ain't hard to put two an' two together.
The interviewer cocks his head to one side in an exaggerated gesture of curiosity, though his face remains expressionless.
Hank Brown: Isn't it?
Bonnie Blue: Well, it's only speculation. There's somethin' different about Kyle Kemp, an' it's not somethin' more. It's less. Not in skill or talent, but somethin' fundamental in his bein'. 'Course, that's only my opinion... You feelin' all right, Hank?
The smile he gives her seems forced and does little in the way of reassurance. Hank's eyes are distant, as if seeing something beyond Bonnie. When he speaks again, his voice is nearly uninflected, lips moving with precision, as if by the hand of a master puppeteer.
Hank Brown: You mentioned Kemp, but not Johnny Rabid...
Bonnie Blue: I was gettin' there. Not hard to get the measure of the man. The "win at any cost" type. Except it all feels hollow, somehow. Like he's goin' through the motions, but this ain't really what's important. Reminds me of someone else I once knew like that. WCF may be the battlefield, but the generals control their armies from afar. Sometimes very far. Then again... what do I know? I grew up on a space station seven hundred years in your future, cloned from the DNA of Johnny Reb, for the express purpose of sacrificin' myself in some spectacular way to bring an end to the Timekeeper War an' save the metaverse. An' that ain't happened. Yet. Might still, I dunno. What I'm sayin' is, my points of reference might be a little, uh, far-flung.
Now, don't get me wrong. Of the three, the only one I got the least respect for is Rabid. Part of that is 'cause he's the only one who ain't threatened -- in graphic detail -- to terminate my life functions. An' outta the three, he's probably the one who could. But shhh! Don't tell him I said that. Personally, well, I'd like a match against him one day, just the two of us. Not necessarily anytime soon, 'cause I know my limitations, an' I ain't quite ready for that. But doesn't it feel right? Just the idea. We sorta got this whole yin an' yang vibe; it's almost inevitable.
For now, though, I'll be content enough to walk out of this confrontation of ours with that TV Title. After that, who knows?
Several expressions vie for dominance on Hank's face, as if he can't quite sort them out, and he finally settles on a vague little half-smile.
Hank Brown: Yeah. Who knows? Well, Miss Blue, it seems we're out of...heh...Time.
Bonnie Blue: Never a problem for me, Hank!
She shoots the camera a grin, and winks theatrically.
Hank Brown: Right.... For WCF, this is Hank Bown, signing off!
And with that, the feed cuts and it all fades to black.
This time, it does catch up to her. Bonnie runs through a landscape of shattered ice, frigid and night-black. The shape behind her is blacker still, absorbing the wan light of winter stars. And suddenly, she finds herself cornered. With nowhere to go, Bonnie turns to confront the thing that hunts her, only to find it expanding to fill her field of vision. She is seized about the throat by some unseen force that constricts with inexorable slowness. As the pressure around her neck increases, the black shape condenses itself down to form something manlike in appearance; something with fathomless dark eyes, cruel lips turned up in a mocking smile...
The stack lowers with a clank! as Bonnie's focus wavers, jolting her from the reverie. Perspiration stands out on her brow, and she extricates her arms from the butterfly machine to reach for her towel. Only it's not hers, she realizes; in fact, the bag at her feet is full of stuff she doesn't recognize. It takes the young woman a moment to realize what's happened. Quickly, she grabs her phone and dials a number.
Bonnie Blue: Hey, Pierce... I think we switched bags in the locker room after Slam last Sunday. Can you meet me at my motel?
There's a pause as she listens to his reply.
Bonnie Blue: I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. My car keys are in there. You know, for the Ranchero...
Another brief pause.
Bonnie Blue: Ok, yeah. I'm heading back now, so I'll be waiting when you get there. Sorry to put you to all this trouble... Say hi to Kat for me. Ok, thanks. See ya!
Inside of two hours, Grayson Pierce has come and gone, and Bonnie is behind the wheel of the Ranchero. The powerful machine cuts through a dozen timelines with ease as she glances at the dog-eared business card in her hand. She shouldn't do it, she knows. It's not really any of her business, except...
Except she'd been drawn in.
Two Weeks Ago
And later, when Bonnie had come upon Chelsea, abandoned by the medics, she felt compelled to remain, so she'd at least have some company. The poor woman had to be out of it; she appeared to be speaking with someone who wasn't even there. Without warning, a hand shot out, grasping the front of Bonnie's shirt to pull her in close. Armstrong's words came out in a harsh whisper, jumbled and barely coherent; but the Daughter of Time had understood enough.
A cold chill ran up her spine, and Bonnie glanced up to see Johnny Rabid staring directly at her. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before he turned his attention back to his conversation -- with none other than company owner Seth Lerch. When Bonnie looked again at Chelsea, she had lapsed again into unconsciousness. Gently, Bonny reached out to brush a strand of hair from the other woman's brow as a look of deep contemplation etched itself upon her face.
Could she believe what Armstrong had told her? Judging by the things she'd seen, it was possible; maybe even likely. Bonnie had never been comfortable around Rabid, and his prowess in the ring wasn't the only reason. What sort of man -- well, that was the point, wasn't it? Bonnie watched him surreptitiously until the medics returned to take charge of their patient at last, depriving her of an excuse to hang around. For a second, she thought about confronting him, now, in front of Lerch. But no. Not yet. Not without more to go on. What she needed was a little more time...
The Office of Sal Minella, Private Eye
Now-ish
She was the kinda dame that made you do a double-take -- twice. Dame, hell! What was I thinkin'? Girl was so young, if you slipped her a Mickey, she'd sprout mouse ears and start singin' "Its a Small World." I gave her another once-over and started to question my sanity. Her face hadn't lost the smooth roundness of youth, pale pink lips full and set in a wry little smile that spoke of a much older woman. She had a pair of gams that wouldn't quit, cased in stockings with a seam up the back. A sapphire blue dress ended at the knee, the hem subtly frilly; her shoulders draped in a matching bolero. There was something about the way her clothes fit -- a certain tightness across the shoulders of her jacket, and sleeves that failed to conceal the shape of sculpted muscle beneath -- that screamed athlete. She was the whole package, complete with a wide-brimmed ladies' fedora perched at a rakish angle. Was "rakish" the right word for a skirt? Maybe it was coquettish.
The sun cast horizontal bars of shadow and light across the young lady in a dramatic fashion, setting the mood, so I played along. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my shoes on the desk and struck a match to a fresh Cuban -- I'd gotten a couple of boxes from a very grateful client -- as I regarded her in silence, waiting. People, especially dames, tended to spill their guts if you were quiet long enough. Ah, but girl she might be, she knew how to play the game, too. Never flinching, even when I blew a cloud of smoke right at her, she kept those blue-green peepers locked onto mine.
"Well?" I growled, cursing myself for letting impatience get the better of me.
The girl beamed at me, and it was like the sun had gone out of the sky and into my office. I was entranced, snared.
"I understand you're a man who knows how to find things out, Mr. Minella," she told me, nevermind that the words Private Investigator on my door made that a foregone conclusion.
"You have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?"
"Blue," she said. "Bonnie Blue."
"Miss Blue." I nodded. "For a price, sure. What's your game, sister? Need somebody found? Boyfriend run out on you?"
She smiled again, this time with the warmth of a winter's fire, and I imagined I could smell gingerbread baking. There was a slight flexing of the biceps beneath her sleeves.
"No, nothin' like that. I need to know everything you can find out about this man."
Out of nowhere, she produced a small photograph and slid it across the desk. I leaned forward and looked it over. He didn't seem like anything special. It was a promotional shot, all muscles and a shiny belt slung over one shoulder, cocky look on his face. A fighter, or my name ain't Sal Minella. And so was she, unless I missed my guess -- and I never do.
"Fighters don't usually hire a Seamus," I said, giving a voice to my musings. I shot her my most pointed look; she caught it in midair and threw it back. This skirt was danger with a capital Damn! "All right, all right. You want background on this mug, that's a thousand upfront, plus expenses and dailies. If you want surveillance, too -- "
"No. He'll get wise to that very quickly, Mr. Minella. Johnny Rabid is no fool."
I hesitated. No wonder the picture looked familiar. Still, if all she wanted was some information...
"Double," I said, and poured myself a shot of scotch from the bottle I kept on the desk. "Two thousand plus expenses."
I knocked the drink back and poured another. The girl shrugged and reached into her jacket. I tensed -- until I saw the corner of a manila envelope as she drew it out and dropped it on the desk.
"That should cover it," she told me in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "I'll expect to hear from you very soon."
Five Minutes Later, Relative
(Actually Sunday Afternoon)
Brian Setzer is waiting for Bonnie as she pulls into a parking spot behind the PNC Arena, his ears laid back and his tail puffed up, in spite of the warm weather. He stops his impatient pacing and hurries to the car.
Brian Setzer: Where have you been? Hank's looking for you!
The young woman's brow furrows.
Bonnie Blue: Didn't he say he was pickin' up somethin' crazy on his sensors and he was gonna go check it out?
The bipedal feline shakes his head.
Brian Setzer: No, the other one. I think he wants you for an interview.
Bonnie Blue: Oh... I see. Hey, wait a minute.. Why are you hanging around out here? What if somebody sees you?
He shrugs.
Brian Setzer: Most people can't deal with me, so they pretend I don't exist. The ones who can think I'm a Furry -- whatever the hell that means. Some chick gave me her phone number and invited me to something called a "scritching party".
Bonnie Blue: Oh.. my.. gods...
Brian Setzer: What? Is that bad? What is it?
Bonnie Blue: It's uh... I'm pretty sure that's their version of an orgy.
Brian Setzer: Wow. Score. Do you think I should bring catnip? Is that a thing they do?
Bonnie Blue: Dude... they're not really anthropomorphic animals. They're just humans in plushy suits.
Brian Setzer: I'm pretty sure that girl was a kitsune, actually. But whichever, I don't care. I'm gettin' laid!
Bonnie Blue: But... what about... are you sure you know what you're doing?
Brian Setzer: Do you know how boring it is to wait in the motel, by myself, while you're at a show? I must've seen every porno there is by now. I think I can figure it out.
Bonnie Blue: I did not need to know that. Ok, well, you have fun. Use protection. Don't get arrested. Remember that no means no. I'm gonna go find Zmac and see what drugs he has that might erase this conversation from my brain.
Brian Setzer: Better see Hank first. Can I take the Ranchero?
The blonde digs into her pocket and flings them; the keys describe a shimmering arc through the air and drop neatly into the cat's outstretched hand.
Bonnie Blue: Don't scratch the paint!
The Ranchero roars to life, drowning out her words. Brian Setzer peels out of the parking lot and merges into the light Sunday afternoon traffic. Bonnie watches until he rounds a corner, disappearing from sight, and then wanders inside -- where she nearly runs right into a hurrying Hank Brown.
Bonnie Blue: Whoa... sorry 'bout that, Hank. Ooh, look at you, all dressed up. Got a hot date?
Indeed, our intrepid interviewer is dressed in charcoal gray slacks, crisply pressed, and a black silk shirt tailored to make him appear slimmer. His face lacks the usual three-day stubble, his hair is neatly styled, and he reeks of expensive aftershave. He gazes at Bonnie, uncomprehending, for a moment, and then seems to recover with an easy smile.
Hank Brown: Bonnie! I was looking for you!
Bonnie Blue: I know. What's up?
Hank Brown: Interview time. The suits upstairs want you to do these things more by the book.
Bonnie Blue: You mean the talent relations people, don't you?
He nods in agreement, though his face remains oddly neutral.
Bonnie Blue: Can't really argue with that. Where do you want to do this?
Hank Brown: Over here... got a backdrop set up and everything.
The young woman allows herself to be led around a corner, where a wide sheet of black canvas bearing a repeated WCF motif in lime green has been draped over part of the wall; and someone with a camera waits patiently, making little adjustments to the equipment as Bonnie and Hank step into the shot.
Hank Brown: Well, Bonnie, you've got yourself another shot at the Television Championship currently held by Dustin Beaver -- but so do your two partners, Joseph Malignaggi and Grayson Pierce. How's that going to affect your teamwork?
Bonnie looks thoughtful for a moment, raising a hand to her chin, forefinger resting against her lips as she considers.
Bonnie Blue: You get right into it, don't ya, Hank? Well, it's like this... I know for a fact Pierce has my back; an' I got his. But I know nothin' personally about Joseph Malignaggi. I mean, I know who he is, what he's achieved in the relatively short duration he's been with the comp'ny. I intend no disprespect to the man at all. It's just that we've barely met. Pass him in the hall between matches, the guy don't say nothin'. His work speaks for itself, so I ain't worried -- but at the same time, I know he's the biggest threat in that ring. I don't reckon he wants somethin' so triflin' -- to him -- as the TV Title; but I doubt he'd turn it down, either.
An' Grayson, well... He's had titles before. Some arguably more prestigious, more... meanin'ful. In this case, it's a matter of principle. At this point, his interest in the TV Title is mainly gettin' it away from Beaver simply to prove it can be done. It can. An' maybe Livewire is just the man to do it. But...
This is the fourth time I've had that thing dangled in front of me, like a steak before a starvin' dog. An' I ain't even got close yet. I mean, maybe I woulda got it off Andre Jenson, back when he had it, if'n Oblivion hadn't interfered. Then again, that ain't worth speculatin' about. It's over, done, in the past. It's three times I'll be facin' Dustin Beaver -- an' twice in a situation like this.
Hank Brown: Things didn't work out so well the first time.
Bonnie Blue: No, an' that was my own damned fault, plain an' simple. I didn't reckon on just how vicious that boy was, how committed to the #BeachKrew ethos -- if y'can call it that. Then again, I didn't reckon the little bastard was gonna literally try an' murder me on live TV. That second time... that was a group effort, on both sides, an' the rest of the Krew made damn sure Beaver was protected. So even though Preecha Kamon got the pin, we all came away empty-handed.
Hank Brown: And this time?
Bonnie Blue: We've danced this dance already. Some of the participants are different. There are fewer of us. The dynamics have changed. There's tension in the beachhouse. But me and Pierce are solid, come what may. Mr. Malignaggi might not even have to show up.
And Dustin... the champ -- he dismisses the one person who wants this more than anything. Really, it's beyond principle by now. How many times can you be offered the same title and fail? I can't go through that again, Hank. You'd think one of them would have been smart enough to understand that. But no. Dustin talked a lot about Joseph Malinaggi, and I can't blame him for that. He's the obvious one. More experience, more wins, more titles than me or Grayson. And, well, Dustin had a fair few things to say about him, too.
But me? I'm beneath his notice? Well, not entirely. Still under his skin enough he wants to finish the job he started that first time. Like I'm not accustomed to death threats. As if I haven't been living with them from the first time I dared to so much as say "Howdy" to Sharkboy. Back before he got that convenient injury that keeps him from ever having to actually set foot in the ring with me. That's beside the point. Point is... death threats from #BeachKrew have a way of gettin' old after a while.
No, that isn't the point. The point is, I'm not walkin' outta that ring without the Television Title. Not this damn time. I've suffered too much humiliation at the hands of that sadistic son of a bitch, an' I am not takin' any more. It's way past time for some payback, an' I can't think of a better way than deprivin' Dustin Beaver of his most prized possession -- the very thing that bought his way into #BeachKrew -- the WCF Television Title. It's comin' home with Bonnie Blue this time!
Hank Brown: Dustin isn't your only competition, though. There are the tag team champions to consider.
Bonnie Blue: Right you are, Hank. I hadn't forgotten. Rabid an' Kemp. Again. Gods know they ain't the champs without reason. Damn, the way they retained their belts at One was honestly breathtaking. But Kyle Kemp, Hank, I gotta tell ya... that guy's startin' to scare me. He's just brutal these days. I mean, there have been occasions where he made Mikey eXtreme look...downright tame! Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. But there's something... odd about him.
Hank Brown: What do you mean?
Bonnie Blue: Like... ever since he's been partners with Rabid, he's changed. A little at a time, so's y'almost wouldn't notice it. Honestly, I wouldn't have, if'n I hadn't been goin' through a "Best Of" compilation on the WCF Network. An' here's this guy, this former baseball player who decided that wrestlin' was a good transition to make somehow. That partic'lar logic escapes me, but I can't blame the guy. What we do is more'n a career -- it's a callin', in a lot of ways. But y'know, here's Kemp, just doin' his thing, an' along comes Rabid like some kind of serpent in the garden. Next thing ya know, Kemp's got this whole aggression thing. Ain't hard to put two an' two together.
The interviewer cocks his head to one side in an exaggerated gesture of curiosity, though his face remains expressionless.
Hank Brown: Isn't it?
Bonnie Blue: Well, it's only speculation. There's somethin' different about Kyle Kemp, an' it's not somethin' more. It's less. Not in skill or talent, but somethin' fundamental in his bein'. 'Course, that's only my opinion... You feelin' all right, Hank?
The smile he gives her seems forced and does little in the way of reassurance. Hank's eyes are distant, as if seeing something beyond Bonnie. When he speaks again, his voice is nearly uninflected, lips moving with precision, as if by the hand of a master puppeteer.
Hank Brown: You mentioned Kemp, but not Johnny Rabid...
Bonnie Blue: I was gettin' there. Not hard to get the measure of the man. The "win at any cost" type. Except it all feels hollow, somehow. Like he's goin' through the motions, but this ain't really what's important. Reminds me of someone else I once knew like that. WCF may be the battlefield, but the generals control their armies from afar. Sometimes very far. Then again... what do I know? I grew up on a space station seven hundred years in your future, cloned from the DNA of Johnny Reb, for the express purpose of sacrificin' myself in some spectacular way to bring an end to the Timekeeper War an' save the metaverse. An' that ain't happened. Yet. Might still, I dunno. What I'm sayin' is, my points of reference might be a little, uh, far-flung.
Now, don't get me wrong. Of the three, the only one I got the least respect for is Rabid. Part of that is 'cause he's the only one who ain't threatened -- in graphic detail -- to terminate my life functions. An' outta the three, he's probably the one who could. But shhh! Don't tell him I said that. Personally, well, I'd like a match against him one day, just the two of us. Not necessarily anytime soon, 'cause I know my limitations, an' I ain't quite ready for that. But doesn't it feel right? Just the idea. We sorta got this whole yin an' yang vibe; it's almost inevitable.
For now, though, I'll be content enough to walk out of this confrontation of ours with that TV Title. After that, who knows?
Several expressions vie for dominance on Hank's face, as if he can't quite sort them out, and he finally settles on a vague little half-smile.
Hank Brown: Yeah. Who knows? Well, Miss Blue, it seems we're out of...heh...Time.
Bonnie Blue: Never a problem for me, Hank!
She shoots the camera a grin, and winks theatrically.
Hank Brown: Right.... For WCF, this is Hank Bown, signing off!
And with that, the feed cuts and it all fades to black.
