The Sublime to the Ridiculous

[Bonnie Blue]

Part One: The Drop

The cafe she'd chosen was almost crowded, with lights only dim enough to lend a hint of atmosphere, and I was glad the girl had listened when I'd told her to meet me somewhere public, with lights and people. As cases went, this one had been interesting enough. Information had been hard to come by and dearly bought. The only witnesses I might've interviewed were six feet under -- not necessarily an insurmountble problem in itself. There are ways, if you know what you're doing. Unless there's an opposing force blocking your access to them.

And then there was the ... other interested party, who made it very clear that it would be best for my continued health if I were to become disinterested in Johnny Rabid. That personage -- I couldn't tell, in the dark, with a black hood over my head, the individual's gender or even how many there were -- took what I had collected without even having the decency to pay for it. I learned from the first time I'd found myself in that position; I keep backup files to my backup files, just in case.

I walked into the coffee joint, and there she was; a child-goddess in denim that clung to her legs in a way that made me envy the jeans. A fitted black T-shirt with the letters "WCF" written in bright green stretched across her chest, modestly covered by a blue overcoat. I made my way over to her table and casually dropped a folded newspaper onto it.

"Take a look at the sports section," I advised, turning away.

"You got everything?" she asked, putting a hand on my arm to stop me.

I turned to gaze at her, felt my expression harden into granite.

"I got what I could. It ain't worth my life," I told the girl. "Take my advice, Miss Blue, and don't pursue this any further."

"I must," she replied, something distant in her voice.

"Why?"

"Justice..."

Now where have I heard that before? I clamped down on that line of thinking and shook my head. "This ain't something you want to be in the middle of. Somebody else is already looking into your guy, and if they get wind you asked me to nose around, they might pay you a visit next."

She gave me a look of resolve so pure it made me flinch. "I reckon they might. Too bad for them."

The girl wasn't kidding. There was more to it than childish stubbornness; she knew she could back it up. What's more, so did I. I investigate my clients thoroughly, all part of the case, and I'd seen what she was capable of. I may not know much about wrestling, but I know people; and from what I'd seen, once Bonnie Blue set her mind to something, it was going to happen.

"Too bad for them," I echoed, as I extracted my arm from her grip. With a grin, I tipped my hat to her and left. Somehow, I doubted this would be the last I saw of Bonnie Blue...

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Part Two: Riddik-ulous Notions

Midmorning on any day of the week finds Bonnie Blue hard at work in a small, locally owned and operated gym; and at the moment, so does a WCF camera crew. The frame focuses neatly on Bonnie as she hops off the solitary treadmill, toweling perspiration from her brow. She takes a sip of water from a bottle, then glances at the camera. A dazzling smile lights up her face.

Bonnie Blue: Howdy, y'all. I know I been awful quiet lately, but rest assured, all is well. After losin' to Dune week 'fore last, I been redoublin' my efforts in trainin'. As our new Head of Talent Relations pointed out, I may have been allowin' myself to get dragged into pointless arguments on Twitter a little too often. That's not hard to do, though, 'specially with guys like Dag Riddik.

The young woman's smile falters a little.

Bonnie Blue: Honestly, the word-vomit that spews forth from your facehole is a geyser of ineffectual twaddle. I mean, I thought I had a bad habit of strayin' from the topic, but Daggett, my friend, you take the blue ribbon there. You are the prize sow of meanin'less diatribe. We all get it -- you're the poster child for unresolved anger issues. How does that set you apart from ninety percent of the current roster?

Oh, and the whole Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner thing? Very clever -- the first two times, when it was said by the original Angry Beaver, Dustin. You might know him from his reign as the WCF Television Champion, and a respected -- well, I don't know if respected is the right word, here -- but anyway, a member of #Beachkrew. Along with Wade Moor, who you insisted I'm tryin' to hook up with because of a single exchange we had on Twitter where we didn't threaten each other with physical violence. I know, it made me feel weird, too. And not in the good way. More like a "there's now a stain on my vital essence that will never wash clean" kinda way. Your suggestion is patently ridiculous and -- oh! I just got that! Your name is Riddik, and you say ridiculous things!

But really, as far as that Jenner comparison, what exactly is the problem? Don't these look real to you?

For emphasis, Bonnie cups her breasts in her hands, lifting them to greater prominence.

Bonnie Blue: I promise, they're all-natural, just the way genetics intended. No additives, no preservatives, no GMO -- well, I guess I can't say that last part. Point is, once again, I am not Johnny Reb. I didn't have no gender reassignments, an' I ain't a Time Lord, so this ain't regeneration. That would be cool, though, right? But I'm what you call, in politically correct terms, a cultivated life form. I dunno what's so hard for people to understand about that.

Her neutral expression darkens into a scowl.

Bonnie Blue: But you, Dagbert, ya gotta take it to a whole 'nother level, don't ya? Ya reckon, 'cause ya got a bum deal growin' up, that gives ya the right to piss in everybody's Wheaties. So you come up in here actin' all big with your swagger, runnin' your mouth about things you wouldn't understand without an advanced degree in not bein' a fuckwit. Well, I'm sorry my personal hist'ry don't live up to your high expectations. Things happened. Nasty things; stuff I don't want to have to carry with me. My friends were slaughtered in the span of minutes, everythin' I knew destroyed, all 'cause some asshole wanted to take over the Metaverse. All, in absolute truth, 'cause of me; 'cause I was created to be the weapon to put an end to the Timekeeper Wars. The joke, though, is that the very nature of the conflict means there is no end.

An' then you have the unmitigated gall to make light of the entirety of my existence goin' up in proverbial smoke, just 'cause you lack the capacity to grasp simple concepts? Fuck you. Life's messy, shit happens, and you ain't nothin' more than a punk-ass, second-rate Dustin Beaver wannabe.

To thoroughly get her point across, Bonnie gives the camera a one-finger salute. And the scene fades out.

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Part Three: Common Sense

Open on the same gym, with its unfinished concrete floor and cinder block walls; much of the equipment salvaged from curbside and carefully restored. The quality of the day's light has changed, beams of rosy gold pouring down from high windows to mute the otherwise bright flourescent glow. The Daughter of Time is dressed now in street clothes; her blonde hair, slightly damp from a shower, cascades down over her shoulders in golden waves. She gives the camera a cheeky smile, much more relaxed now.

Bonnie Blue: For every action, there is an equal an' opposite reaction. That doesn't apply to physics alone. Last week was ample demonstration of that law. And this week... This week, the odds are as even as they can get. Well, very nearly. I dunno how Lucious Starr got himself caught up in all this.

Mr. Starr, I appreciate the awkward position in which you find yourself. You're stuck as part of a team otherwise made up of miscreants and petty thugs; whereas you are a much higher class of person. Andre Holmes speaks highly of you, an' if that wasn't good enough for me, I've seen your matches. You're a hell of a competitor. A man of principle, who understands honor. An' that's why I know, in spite of your ethical dilemma here, you will bring your A-game. You'll support the team regardless of your personal feelin's. I would expect no less of a man with a list of accomplishments as long as yours.

Don't look on this as bein' forced to cooperate with men who would, in any other circumstance, be your natural enemies. See, instead, a means of settin' an example; that no matter how it may chafe your conscience, you do what you must. Not for the win, not for glory alone. But to demonstrate that even our adversaries are worth a little common decency. This is a chance for you to make a definitive statement -- an' if that statement has to include me gettin' roughed up a little bit, I don't mind. Just know I'll give as good as I get at every turn.

The young woman smiles a coy smile and gives the camera a wink that just hints at being suggestive.

Bonnie Blue: Speakin' of "Common" -- as in Bernard Core -- well, what can I say? When I first heard of the guy, I was disappointed to discover he's not the rapper-slash-actor Common. Y'know, some things are called "common" when they really aren't; common decency, common courtesy, common sense. Those things are rarer than platinum, yet appreciated only in their absence.

Typically, the word "Common" refers to something that is not unique, abundant; undistinguished; plain. Everyday. Is there a more fitting description of Bernard Core? I get the pun, sure. It's cute. The scary part is that you actually believe, deep in what passes for a heart, that these so-called "common core standards" are good for education. But it's really just the same ol' lowest-common-denominator, cookie-cutter instruction that's been goin' on since there's been public schoolin'. Now, this ain't the time to get into a debate about the state of education in this country; an' Hell, what do I know? I only just graduated high school myself -- but I can tell ya, even seven hundred years in the relative future, it ain't changed that much.

Oh, what? Lemme guess, you're gonna take what I just said an' twist it, right? Gonna say somethin' about the way I talk, an' equate it with me bein' not only lackin' in what my ancestors woulda called "book learnin'," but in actual intellectual capacity. Maybe before ya do that, though, y'oughta take a closer listen at some of the gems of wisdom your partner Dag has been droppin'. I ain't entirely sure that guy even knows what words mean. In fact, I'm almost certain he's just flipping through a dictionary an' stringin' 'em together until he has somethin' that sounds like a sentence.

Wait, let's not get distracted with the state of poor Von Daggle's mind. What I was gettin' at is, aside from the clever pun, why would you ever refer to yourself as "Common"? You know what else is common? A cold. Annoying. Miserable. Giant pain in the ass. Contagious. So I reckon, in a way, it's kinda apt. You are all of those things, Bernie. Except maybe contagious. I don't really see that. I mean, you make a lot of noise, I'll grant ya that -- but ya don't see many fans runnin' around in Bernard Core t-shirts. Do you even have a T-shirt?

I had some -- but they sold out.

Now she flashes a shameless grin.

Bonnie Blue: As soon as they're back in stock, though, I'll get you one. Then maybe you won't be quite so... common. Moving on.

Her expression turns serious again.

Bonnie Blue: Who am I forgetting? There's a fourth -- ah, yes. Tungsten. No, no... Wolfram, that's right. Jordan Wolfram. Y'know, folks used to say that my predecessor -- Johnny Reb -- was a racist, just 'cause he had this whole "Inveterate Confederate" thing goin'. An' no matter how he tried to explain it, all anyone ever saw was this whole southern equals racist thing. I wouldn't be surprised if a few thought the same of me, bein' as he an' I share basically the same DNA. But after seein' you at work, Wolfram, they all know what a true racist really looks like.

Let's talk about that, Jordan. I'm the one who'd get pegged as the hatemonger, nine times outta ten, just 'cause I got a southern accent. Then they all got to see the way you went after my friend DeMarcus. With a whip, for fuck's sake! Frankly, it turned my stomach. In this day an' age, a quasi-religious, hate spewing, neo-Nazi asshole like you can still run around loose, instead of bein' in a mental institution, where ya belong.

An' people like you, Wolfram -- you an' Common, an' Dag the Ridiculous -- are the reason people like me, like Grayson Pierce, like DeMarcus Jordan an' Andre Holmes; why we fight. Why we look out, not just for one another, but for anyone who might need our help. Competition is one thing. A very fine thing. We are utterly devoted to this profession, don't doubt that for a second. So devoted, we can't stand idly by while people like y'all sully the good name that is Wrestlin' Championship Federation.

As you sow, gentlemen, so shall ya reap. An' y'all been sowin' dragon's teeth. What you're gonna reap is the consequence of your actions. At Slam this week, there will be a reckonin'.

The intensity of Bonnie's gaze burns through the camera lens, the moment captured in glorious high-definition before panning back into a fade out.

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Epilogue

A Dream came to her, but not the nightmare of a faceless enemy, always in pursuit. No crushing weight of terror this time; no mindless panic. Bonnie was entirely at ease, despite the odd surroundings. It was a room, comprised of four walls -- presumeably. Each wall bore a different brightly colored and constantly shifting geometric pattern. Looking at one was bad enough; trying to watch two of them made her queasy. Feeling faint, the young woman wanted to sit... and a chair instantly materialized beneath her. More accurately, it was like the idea of a chair: there was a lot of cushioning, and a sturdy frame holding it all together, but everything was out of place. It sat firmly on a single, attenuated leg; there were a half-dozen armrests at varying levels; and the lurid pink cushions were stuffed almost to bursting. Yet somehow, in spite of that, it was perfectly comfortable.

Bonnie became aware of another presence and looked around. He hadn't entered through any visible door; he'd materialized right in the center of the bizarrely psychadelic room. It was instantly apparent that he wasn't human, though Bonnie couldn't be sure how she knew that. He seemed familiar, in the way that someone you've seen on television or learned about in school is familiar. There was a sense, too, that she'd met him once. He peered at her through a dark mesh hood that covered his face.

"Ooh, I haven't seen one of those in ...centuries? Is that the word you people use? Yeah. Centuries. Definitely K'rvigian; Third Dynasty."

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the chairlike object on which she was seated. That voice; surely she'd heard it before. He'd been there, at the end. He must've caught the way she was studying him, because he pulled the hood off.

"You!" Bonnie gasped. "You're him... the Omega Man. You destroyed the Dark Timekeeper!"

"Yeah... was I not supposed to?"

"No, that was definitely -- " She caught a mischeivous gleam in his eye and stopped. "Haha, you're fuckin' with me. Good one."

His smirk was brief as he looked her over speculatively. "I wasn't sure you'd respond to my summons. People from the material plane often don't; then again, you're ...unique."

"Kind of you to say, I think." Bonnie gazed at the Omega Man. "Summons, huh? You got somethin' to say to me?"

"Cut to the chase, huh? I respect that. All right, it's about your new... friends." Her raised eyebrow prompted him to continue. "One, in particular. Gemini Battle."

"Grayson Pierce," Bonnie corrected. "Livewire. Battle is gone. Finished. Done. The only people still talkin' about him are BeachKrew."

"Don't be so naive."

The Daughter of Time rose from the chair -- which dissolved into a pinkish cloud -- and crossed the room until she was nose-to-nose with the apparition.

"You listen to me, Omega. I ain't gonna hear one word against that man; he's navigated some choppy waters an' managed to come through it relatively okay. Whatever happened before, he's got his shit together now. I trust him with my life. An' no construct of my subconscious is gonna tell me otherwise."

"Construct? Subconscious?"

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "This is obviously a dream. The crazy setting. You, acting all -- not really like you. I'm tellin' ya, there's no reason not to trust Pierce. He's a stand-up guy. Me an' him been goin' back an' forth on this for weeks, talkin'. We saw the same problems needed fixin', an' we both came to the conclusion that somebody had to draw that proverbial line in the sand. Grayson Pierce stands firm in the light, Omega Man, I guarantee that.

"Matter of fact, the four of us stand together in that light. We're the only bulwark against the rising tides. There's the People's Choice, but they ain't anchored right. When that wave comes crashin' down -- an' it will -- we're gonna be the only ones not swept away. An' I'll be damned if I let a figment of my own imagination try to make me doubt my allies."

He nodded. "Fair enough. I still think you should watch your back."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in -- hey, where the hell did you -- ? Son of a bitch."

Bonnie woke then, with a suddenness that made her wonder if she'd ever truly been asleep at all.

"This is the last time I let that cat talk me into eating mushrooms he got from Chuy..."