Post by Bonnie Blue on Mar 6, 2016 15:40:54 GMT -5
To say that things hadn't gone quite according to plan would be an understatement of epic proportion. Murphy's Law had been in full effect during Timebomb -- at least insofar as Bonnie and DeMarcus were concerned. That they'd made it to the end of the match was due entirely to skill and tenacity; that it had been Rabid who dropped them both simultaneously was like salt in the wound.
Why? Why him? If it'd been anyone else... but Rabid. It's because he doesn't take me seriously. Never has. Not even when I confronted him about Chelsea. Has he been, at least, more circumspect since then? Hard to tell. Too many other things going on. Scathe...
Scathe. Her first impression had been right; human, he ain't. What he is, Bonnie still can't be sure. The datasphere she'd brought with her from the future doesn't work anymore; designed to operate on principles yet undiscovered in the Twenty-First Century, there's nothing to which it might connect. Consequently, her resources are limited. Hiring a private investigator again is decidedly out of the question.
And what about Sal? I shouldn't accept what Scathe offers. Just on general principle, I shouldn't. But... if I don't, I condemn a man to servitude; to whatever twisted use Scathe might put him. Not much of a choice, lookin' at it that way. Still... I know there's a catch, an' the more he says there ain't, the less I believe it.
Bonnie sighs and rolls down the driver's side window. Her Ford Ranchero sits in a darkened, rain-slick parking lot outside some hole-in-the-wall gin joint. She's waiting, albeit perhaps not patiently.
Everything's so weird lately. Nothing makes sense. As if reality itself is in flux. Always is, to one degree or another, but usually not so noticeable. Parts of the past, parts that shoulda stayed gone, assert themselves in the now. Those elements lay seige to the Beach Crew sandcastle -- can they hear the lack of a hashtag in my thoughts? I hope so. Ha... as if any of those jackasses can read minds!
The young woman's thoughts are interrupted when she catches sight of a solitary figure exiting the bar. She flips the lights on and off to get his attention, and he promptly makes his way toward the Ranchero. Bonnie's brow furrows slightly as she recalls some of her friend's odd behavior lately.
Is he or isn't he? Was that really Gemini Battle we saw Wednesday night? Is Gray aware of it? Should I ask -- no. No point getting him riled up just now. I'll keep an eye on him...
Click. Flint strikes steel. A butane-borne flare throws Bonnie's face into eerie relief against the dark interior of the Ranchero. Taking a long drag, she turns on the overhead light and offers the smoldering hand-rolled to her companion. Grayson Pierce shakes his head, preoccupied with the sheet of stationery in his hand. Bonnie lets her breath out slowly.
Bonnie Blue: Lemme see that list again.
Wordlessly, he passes it to her, a deeply troubled expression on his face. She reads the paper to herself, and takes another draw from her joint.
Bonnie Blue: Well, it seems pretty straightforward. Aside from that part about winnin' the world title.
Grayson Pierce: That's what worries me. Straightforward was never really Jay's M.O.
Bonnie Blue: Hmm. You got a point, there.
Her eyes skim over the list one more time before she hands it back. With a final hit, Bonnie stubs out the joint in the car's ashtray. A speculative look steals across her face.
Bonnie Blue: Still, all in all, it's paid work. Minimal risk. If it gets to be too much, you can just stop. I fail to see the downside.
Grayson Pierce: It's not that simple, Bonnie. Omega's little "errands" have a way of... not going according to plan.
The Livewire slumps a little in his seat, something vaguely mutinous in his features, as if challenging her to argue. Bonnie's smile is indulgent; she reaches out to touch his arm, drawing his gaze to hers.
Bonnie Blue: Gray, listen... I may not have known Omega as well as you did. But I reckon I knew him enough that I'm certain, if he made this list, there was a damn good reason. All the trouble he went to, arrangin' this whole thing, in the full knowledge he was in mortal danger -- an' of all the people he coulda entrusted this to, it was you he chose.
His face seems to drain of tension, a little at a time, as he mulls over her words.
War rages around Bonnie, in a peripheral sort of way. She observes it, detached from the experience because it isn't hers. It's televised. Three large flat-screen monitors are arrayed before her, each showing a half dozen news feeds. Fires of an unusual hue burn madly through what the news anchor claims is New Orleans. Intermittent gunfire erupts from unseen combatants in Martha's Vineyard. In Houston, rioting breaks out as an already overcrowded vessel lifts from the ground, bound for the stars; several individuals, unable to fit safely inside, are sent plummeting to their deaths rather than risk bringing the craft within range of the simmering violence.
She wants it to stop, but Bonnie can't make herself move. All she can do is close her eyes against the flood of negative images. And soon enough, the sounds begin to recede away into eventual nothingness. Still she keeps her eyes shut, until a familiar, comforting voice brings her back to the present, and she finds herself back in the car as if nothing had happened.
Bonnie Blue: Wait, sorry... what?
Grayson Pierce: I said maybe you might have a point.
Bonnie Blue: About what?
Grayson Pierce: The thing you just said!
He sounds mildly annoyed, but Bonnie can't recall having just said anything. Not since she'd asked to see Omega's list. No sooner had she taken the paper, than she'd suddenly found herself ...someplace else. Probably better not to mention that.
Bonnie Blue: Sorry, Gray. I say a lot of things, an' I'm never sure anyone's actually listenin'.
Grayson PIerce: Haha. Yeah, I know that feeling. Anyway, thanks for the talk. I guess I just wanted to be sure, if I do this, it's for the right reasons.
Bonnie Blue: I understand. If whatever I said helped, then I'm glad.
The smile she gives him is warm, genuine. Pierce smiles back, his demeanor much more relaxed as he opens the door and takes his leave, promising to meet her as soon as he gets to Colorado Springs. Bonnie watches him walk across the gleaming-wet pavement, wondering what in the worlds she could have said that he'd found so inspirational.
All roads lead to the top of the mountain; to the pinnacle of wrestling achievement -- the world title. Colorado Springs is but one stop among many along that road. Bonnie shifts the car into a lower gear as the speed limit drops considerably. A town must be nearby. In the passenger seat beside her, Don Jesus Luis de Guadalupe searches through a box full of 8-track cassettes.
"I don't reckon this is gonna do a lotta good, Chuy," Bonnie opines.
He hesitates and cocks his head at her, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
"Oh? And what makes you say that, Bernardo?" he asks.
"If the Timekeeper can't figure out how Omega died, how in the hell can I? Besides, I got other things to worry about. Remember how ya couldn't find Sal for a while?"
Chuy nods slowly, unsure what she's getting at.
"Apparently, he was dead, an' now Scathe's got him. Claims he didn't do the actual killin', of course. Says he wants to give him back to me. Show of good faith, or somethin'..."
The Latino man frowns deeply. "Oh, Bernardo, tell me you did not strike a bargain."
"Not yet. He says he wants my answer by Sunday. I don't trust him. He's got it out for Rebellution. Been systematically workin' his way through each of us, 'cept it's like he don't care if he wins. I beat him, an' he kept right after me, even when the bell rang. Didn't even show up for his match with DeMarcus, not until after it had been ruled a forfeit. Crazy."
"Cunning," Chuy corrects her. "This Scathe is possessed of a devious mind, Bernardo, and powers I haven't seen since..."
He trails off, thinking. The ability to bring back the dead, in and of itself, wasn't uncommon. Even Chuy could manage it, once, if he really wanted to. But the methods involved were invariably distasteful, and the results often unpredictable. Don Jesus tried to avoid dealings with the sorts of entities who dealt in reanimation; most of them dealt in death, too -- or worse. He has the feeling "or worse" applies to Scathe. A singular notion, frightening enough to chill him into immobility, forms in his mind. What if -- ?
Quickly, the older man pulls his Galaxy phone from a pocket and brings up the WCF app, where he searches through the roster photos. At last, he stops on an image, staring at it with a scowl. Old memories stir at the sight of the man, though Chuy can't be entirely certain where he's seen him before. He finds himself filled with a deep sense of foreboding.
"Just stay away from him, Bernardo," Don Jesus says.
"Whenever possible," Bonnie assures him.
She hadn't told him about the vision; about seeing Scathe pull a canvas-shrouded corpse from the murky depths without benefit of diving gear. Nor about recovering from that same vision drenched in lakewater. Specifically why she hadn't mentioned it, however, is a mystery even to Bonnie. Every time she thinks to bring it up, some other thought, more immediate, crowds it out. Worse, she already knows she won't take Don Jesus' advice. She can't. Not with the life of an associate in the balance. Chuy gives her a skeptical look, but doesn't argue.
"As to the situation concerning Bernardo's death," he says; it takes Bonnie a moment to realize he means Jay Omega, "it can wait. He will get no less dead -- or if he does, so much the better. Unless he comes back as a zombie... Anyway, the point is, Bernardo, you must focus on this match. It is more important that you defeat the beach people."
"That is at the top of my priority list."
And meanwhile, far away in space and time, high up within the legendary Rock of Ages, the Timekeeper -- formerly Johnny Reb -- watches as the Ranchero cruises on down the road. Beside him, a woman with skin the color of midnight, clad in shimmering white to match the tresses flowing from her head to her ankles, gives a soft sigh.
"We should never have burdened primates with intellect," she tells him, looking him over carefully. And then, abruptly, she changes the subject, continuing an earlier discussion. "What was it like, Brother? To die?"
Johnny gives her a sidelong look. "Shouldn't you know, Sister?"
"Among us, only you have experienced mortality," she says, shrugging.
His brow knits together in a frown. "Perhaps one day, we all will..."
Early Sunday afternoon, and Bonnie Blue is all alone in the World Arena. She perches on a turnbuckle, a single spotlight shining down from overhead, and gazes thoughtfully out at the empty seats. Soon, they'll be filled with throngs of wrestling fans; now, they are filled with only silence. The Daughter of Time turns to look directly at the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Hi there, Beach Crew. I can save a lot of time by not using individual names, since y'all are all basically interchangeable. You're all one long string of bad puns after another. Except that not all of you even have oceanic-themed names or nicknames. How about Johnny Rabid? What kind of sea name is that? Can fish even get rabies? What sort of sea creature does he represent? I don't get it. Or Kyle Kemp, for that matter? The only thing fishy about him is his breath. How 'bout Beaver? Beavers are not maritime mammals, so there's another fail.
And then ya got John Gable. I'm not even sure there's a sea pun you could apply to him. At least Andre Aquarius makes sense... the word for water is literally right in his name! Wade makes sense, too. Especially considering his cerebral depth, which is negligible. You ain't swimmin' in that ocean; you're wadin' in the shallows.
She gives the camera a shameless grin.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, all right, that wasn't nice. Then again... well, neither are they. I mean, they're Beach Crew. It's their job to be assholes, an' they're damn good at it. But we're Rebellution, an' it's our job to teach those assholes a lesson they won't soon forget.
Now, Andrea, I bet I know what you're gonna say -- because we've heard it all before. Y'all Beach Crew folks keep singin' the same tune. I'm a joke, a novelty act, a repetition of Johnny Reb an' nothin' more. But have ya forgotten that Johnny Reb was a multiple-time World Champion an' Tag Team Champion in his own right? That he retired the likes of the legendary Hall-of-Famer Allan Guilliano? If I am to repeat those accomplishments, at least in kind if not in fact, well... there are worse fates.
Speakin' of fate, Andrea -- d'ya believe in the Galactic Prophecy? D'ya even know what it says? See... there's as many "Galactic Prophecies" as there are spacefarin' cultures in the multiverse. Lots of 'em say the same general things in the same general terms. So the real question is, how legit is Jim Thuggin's version? How legit is Thuggin himself? An'... is there even a place for you in whatever new world order the Beach Crew intends to bring about?
Or are you a tool, to be used an' discarded the moment you've served your purpose?
The expression on her face is utterly guileless, full of sincerity.
Bonnie Blue: Somethin' y'oughta think about, 'fore ya risk life an' limb in that ring with me an' Gray. See, it seems like y'all done forgot what Rebellution's about. Ever since Fifteen, when y'all let yourselves get drawn into this thing with Logan an' his Team of Tediousness, an' completely forgot Rebellution existed.
Now, to be fair, we've had a little distraction of our own; a rather insistent one. But when someone wants our attention that badly, how can we do anything but oblige? I mean... the other option is avoidance, an' only a coward would do that. Well, y'all can't avoid us this week.
Bonnie's smile returns, confident, bordering on smug.
Bonnie Blue: You're gonna fight your heart out this week, Andrea. Just like ya did last week, when you defeated Dag Riddik and Charon. Not that beatin' Dag is all that impressive; there's like two people who haven't. Charon, though, he's a diff'rent story. He's worth twice a Dag Riddik -- which still ain't sayin' much, but at least it's somethin'. But see, it don't matter to guys like Moor or Sharknado or Rabid. It don't matter how hard ya train, how hard ya fight; it don't matter how much ya sweat or bleed for Beach Crew, Andrea. Only thing that counts to them is wins, remember? So what d'ya think is gonna happen when ya leave that ring tonight, broken an' humiliated?
The young woman pauses to brush a loose strand of blonde hair from her eyes. Suddenly, her entire expression brightens as a thought occurs to her.
Bonnie Blue: Oh wait! I got it! John Gab-EEL!
Even as she says it, her face clouds with disappointment.
Bonnie Blue: Nope. That only sounded good in my head. Ok, sometimes puns are really hard. Anyway...
John Gable. Wrestler-slash-actor. Which one is more important to ya, Mr. Gable? I hear you've done some really superb films, an' folks always seem surprised at that fact. Like you're some no-talent hack who lucked into the industry by being just good-lookin' enough, it didn't matter if you could barely read your lines. I'm gonna be honest, though... I ain't actually seen any of your films. Not that I wouldn't like to, but they was real hard to find where I come from.
I gotta wonder, though... is one career a mirror of the other? Is your success as an actor dependent on your success in the ring? Or vice versa? Seems to me you'd have been better off to tough it out in Hollywood, rather than to come back here to the WCF, where you're so unappreciated ya gotta take up with Beach Crew just to have friends. Well... such as they are. Loyalty's a foreign concept to those types.
Thing is, both of y'all may believe you're secure in your respective positions; but how soon fortunes can change, gentlemen. You'll find your benefactors less munificent come the end of Slam tonight, of that, I am reasonably certain. Because there's no way in hell either of y'all gonna be standin' after me an' Gray get through with ya.
We're done playin' nice. We're done waitin' our turn. Tonight, Rebellution takes the fight to Beach Crew, an' y'all ain't gonna be able to do a damn thing about it. Tempus vindice!
Bonnie gazes intently into the camera as the scene fades to black.
Why? Why him? If it'd been anyone else... but Rabid. It's because he doesn't take me seriously. Never has. Not even when I confronted him about Chelsea. Has he been, at least, more circumspect since then? Hard to tell. Too many other things going on. Scathe...
Scathe. Her first impression had been right; human, he ain't. What he is, Bonnie still can't be sure. The datasphere she'd brought with her from the future doesn't work anymore; designed to operate on principles yet undiscovered in the Twenty-First Century, there's nothing to which it might connect. Consequently, her resources are limited. Hiring a private investigator again is decidedly out of the question.
And what about Sal? I shouldn't accept what Scathe offers. Just on general principle, I shouldn't. But... if I don't, I condemn a man to servitude; to whatever twisted use Scathe might put him. Not much of a choice, lookin' at it that way. Still... I know there's a catch, an' the more he says there ain't, the less I believe it.
Bonnie sighs and rolls down the driver's side window. Her Ford Ranchero sits in a darkened, rain-slick parking lot outside some hole-in-the-wall gin joint. She's waiting, albeit perhaps not patiently.
Everything's so weird lately. Nothing makes sense. As if reality itself is in flux. Always is, to one degree or another, but usually not so noticeable. Parts of the past, parts that shoulda stayed gone, assert themselves in the now. Those elements lay seige to the Beach Crew sandcastle -- can they hear the lack of a hashtag in my thoughts? I hope so. Ha... as if any of those jackasses can read minds!
The young woman's thoughts are interrupted when she catches sight of a solitary figure exiting the bar. She flips the lights on and off to get his attention, and he promptly makes his way toward the Ranchero. Bonnie's brow furrows slightly as she recalls some of her friend's odd behavior lately.
Is he or isn't he? Was that really Gemini Battle we saw Wednesday night? Is Gray aware of it? Should I ask -- no. No point getting him riled up just now. I'll keep an eye on him...
Click. Flint strikes steel. A butane-borne flare throws Bonnie's face into eerie relief against the dark interior of the Ranchero. Taking a long drag, she turns on the overhead light and offers the smoldering hand-rolled to her companion. Grayson Pierce shakes his head, preoccupied with the sheet of stationery in his hand. Bonnie lets her breath out slowly.
Bonnie Blue: Lemme see that list again.
Wordlessly, he passes it to her, a deeply troubled expression on his face. She reads the paper to herself, and takes another draw from her joint.
Bonnie Blue: Well, it seems pretty straightforward. Aside from that part about winnin' the world title.
Grayson Pierce: That's what worries me. Straightforward was never really Jay's M.O.
Bonnie Blue: Hmm. You got a point, there.
Her eyes skim over the list one more time before she hands it back. With a final hit, Bonnie stubs out the joint in the car's ashtray. A speculative look steals across her face.
Bonnie Blue: Still, all in all, it's paid work. Minimal risk. If it gets to be too much, you can just stop. I fail to see the downside.
Grayson Pierce: It's not that simple, Bonnie. Omega's little "errands" have a way of... not going according to plan.
The Livewire slumps a little in his seat, something vaguely mutinous in his features, as if challenging her to argue. Bonnie's smile is indulgent; she reaches out to touch his arm, drawing his gaze to hers.
Bonnie Blue: Gray, listen... I may not have known Omega as well as you did. But I reckon I knew him enough that I'm certain, if he made this list, there was a damn good reason. All the trouble he went to, arrangin' this whole thing, in the full knowledge he was in mortal danger -- an' of all the people he coulda entrusted this to, it was you he chose.
His face seems to drain of tension, a little at a time, as he mulls over her words.
=======================================================================
She wants it to stop, but Bonnie can't make herself move. All she can do is close her eyes against the flood of negative images. And soon enough, the sounds begin to recede away into eventual nothingness. Still she keeps her eyes shut, until a familiar, comforting voice brings her back to the present, and she finds herself back in the car as if nothing had happened.
====================================================================
Grayson Pierce: I said maybe you might have a point.
Bonnie Blue: About what?
Grayson Pierce: The thing you just said!
He sounds mildly annoyed, but Bonnie can't recall having just said anything. Not since she'd asked to see Omega's list. No sooner had she taken the paper, than she'd suddenly found herself ...someplace else. Probably better not to mention that.
Bonnie Blue: Sorry, Gray. I say a lot of things, an' I'm never sure anyone's actually listenin'.
Grayson PIerce: Haha. Yeah, I know that feeling. Anyway, thanks for the talk. I guess I just wanted to be sure, if I do this, it's for the right reasons.
Bonnie Blue: I understand. If whatever I said helped, then I'm glad.
The smile she gives him is warm, genuine. Pierce smiles back, his demeanor much more relaxed as he opens the door and takes his leave, promising to meet her as soon as he gets to Colorado Springs. Bonnie watches him walk across the gleaming-wet pavement, wondering what in the worlds she could have said that he'd found so inspirational.
======================================================================
"I don't reckon this is gonna do a lotta good, Chuy," Bonnie opines.
He hesitates and cocks his head at her, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
"Oh? And what makes you say that, Bernardo?" he asks.
"If the Timekeeper can't figure out how Omega died, how in the hell can I? Besides, I got other things to worry about. Remember how ya couldn't find Sal for a while?"
Chuy nods slowly, unsure what she's getting at.
"Apparently, he was dead, an' now Scathe's got him. Claims he didn't do the actual killin', of course. Says he wants to give him back to me. Show of good faith, or somethin'..."
The Latino man frowns deeply. "Oh, Bernardo, tell me you did not strike a bargain."
"Not yet. He says he wants my answer by Sunday. I don't trust him. He's got it out for Rebellution. Been systematically workin' his way through each of us, 'cept it's like he don't care if he wins. I beat him, an' he kept right after me, even when the bell rang. Didn't even show up for his match with DeMarcus, not until after it had been ruled a forfeit. Crazy."
"Cunning," Chuy corrects her. "This Scathe is possessed of a devious mind, Bernardo, and powers I haven't seen since..."
He trails off, thinking. The ability to bring back the dead, in and of itself, wasn't uncommon. Even Chuy could manage it, once, if he really wanted to. But the methods involved were invariably distasteful, and the results often unpredictable. Don Jesus tried to avoid dealings with the sorts of entities who dealt in reanimation; most of them dealt in death, too -- or worse. He has the feeling "or worse" applies to Scathe. A singular notion, frightening enough to chill him into immobility, forms in his mind. What if -- ?
Quickly, the older man pulls his Galaxy phone from a pocket and brings up the WCF app, where he searches through the roster photos. At last, he stops on an image, staring at it with a scowl. Old memories stir at the sight of the man, though Chuy can't be entirely certain where he's seen him before. He finds himself filled with a deep sense of foreboding.
"Just stay away from him, Bernardo," Don Jesus says.
"Whenever possible," Bonnie assures him.
She hadn't told him about the vision; about seeing Scathe pull a canvas-shrouded corpse from the murky depths without benefit of diving gear. Nor about recovering from that same vision drenched in lakewater. Specifically why she hadn't mentioned it, however, is a mystery even to Bonnie. Every time she thinks to bring it up, some other thought, more immediate, crowds it out. Worse, she already knows she won't take Don Jesus' advice. She can't. Not with the life of an associate in the balance. Chuy gives her a skeptical look, but doesn't argue.
"As to the situation concerning Bernardo's death," he says; it takes Bonnie a moment to realize he means Jay Omega, "it can wait. He will get no less dead -- or if he does, so much the better. Unless he comes back as a zombie... Anyway, the point is, Bernardo, you must focus on this match. It is more important that you defeat the beach people."
"That is at the top of my priority list."
And meanwhile, far away in space and time, high up within the legendary Rock of Ages, the Timekeeper -- formerly Johnny Reb -- watches as the Ranchero cruises on down the road. Beside him, a woman with skin the color of midnight, clad in shimmering white to match the tresses flowing from her head to her ankles, gives a soft sigh.
"We should never have burdened primates with intellect," she tells him, looking him over carefully. And then, abruptly, she changes the subject, continuing an earlier discussion. "What was it like, Brother? To die?"
Johnny gives her a sidelong look. "Shouldn't you know, Sister?"
"Among us, only you have experienced mortality," she says, shrugging.
His brow knits together in a frown. "Perhaps one day, we all will..."
=======================================================================
Bonnie Blue: Hi there, Beach Crew. I can save a lot of time by not using individual names, since y'all are all basically interchangeable. You're all one long string of bad puns after another. Except that not all of you even have oceanic-themed names or nicknames. How about Johnny Rabid? What kind of sea name is that? Can fish even get rabies? What sort of sea creature does he represent? I don't get it. Or Kyle Kemp, for that matter? The only thing fishy about him is his breath. How 'bout Beaver? Beavers are not maritime mammals, so there's another fail.
And then ya got John Gable. I'm not even sure there's a sea pun you could apply to him. At least Andre Aquarius makes sense... the word for water is literally right in his name! Wade makes sense, too. Especially considering his cerebral depth, which is negligible. You ain't swimmin' in that ocean; you're wadin' in the shallows.
She gives the camera a shameless grin.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, all right, that wasn't nice. Then again... well, neither are they. I mean, they're Beach Crew. It's their job to be assholes, an' they're damn good at it. But we're Rebellution, an' it's our job to teach those assholes a lesson they won't soon forget.
Now, Andrea, I bet I know what you're gonna say -- because we've heard it all before. Y'all Beach Crew folks keep singin' the same tune. I'm a joke, a novelty act, a repetition of Johnny Reb an' nothin' more. But have ya forgotten that Johnny Reb was a multiple-time World Champion an' Tag Team Champion in his own right? That he retired the likes of the legendary Hall-of-Famer Allan Guilliano? If I am to repeat those accomplishments, at least in kind if not in fact, well... there are worse fates.
Speakin' of fate, Andrea -- d'ya believe in the Galactic Prophecy? D'ya even know what it says? See... there's as many "Galactic Prophecies" as there are spacefarin' cultures in the multiverse. Lots of 'em say the same general things in the same general terms. So the real question is, how legit is Jim Thuggin's version? How legit is Thuggin himself? An'... is there even a place for you in whatever new world order the Beach Crew intends to bring about?
Or are you a tool, to be used an' discarded the moment you've served your purpose?
The expression on her face is utterly guileless, full of sincerity.
Bonnie Blue: Somethin' y'oughta think about, 'fore ya risk life an' limb in that ring with me an' Gray. See, it seems like y'all done forgot what Rebellution's about. Ever since Fifteen, when y'all let yourselves get drawn into this thing with Logan an' his Team of Tediousness, an' completely forgot Rebellution existed.
Now, to be fair, we've had a little distraction of our own; a rather insistent one. But when someone wants our attention that badly, how can we do anything but oblige? I mean... the other option is avoidance, an' only a coward would do that. Well, y'all can't avoid us this week.
Bonnie's smile returns, confident, bordering on smug.
Bonnie Blue: You're gonna fight your heart out this week, Andrea. Just like ya did last week, when you defeated Dag Riddik and Charon. Not that beatin' Dag is all that impressive; there's like two people who haven't. Charon, though, he's a diff'rent story. He's worth twice a Dag Riddik -- which still ain't sayin' much, but at least it's somethin'. But see, it don't matter to guys like Moor or Sharknado or Rabid. It don't matter how hard ya train, how hard ya fight; it don't matter how much ya sweat or bleed for Beach Crew, Andrea. Only thing that counts to them is wins, remember? So what d'ya think is gonna happen when ya leave that ring tonight, broken an' humiliated?
The young woman pauses to brush a loose strand of blonde hair from her eyes. Suddenly, her entire expression brightens as a thought occurs to her.
Bonnie Blue: Oh wait! I got it! John Gab-EEL!
Even as she says it, her face clouds with disappointment.
Bonnie Blue: Nope. That only sounded good in my head. Ok, sometimes puns are really hard. Anyway...
John Gable. Wrestler-slash-actor. Which one is more important to ya, Mr. Gable? I hear you've done some really superb films, an' folks always seem surprised at that fact. Like you're some no-talent hack who lucked into the industry by being just good-lookin' enough, it didn't matter if you could barely read your lines. I'm gonna be honest, though... I ain't actually seen any of your films. Not that I wouldn't like to, but they was real hard to find where I come from.
I gotta wonder, though... is one career a mirror of the other? Is your success as an actor dependent on your success in the ring? Or vice versa? Seems to me you'd have been better off to tough it out in Hollywood, rather than to come back here to the WCF, where you're so unappreciated ya gotta take up with Beach Crew just to have friends. Well... such as they are. Loyalty's a foreign concept to those types.
Thing is, both of y'all may believe you're secure in your respective positions; but how soon fortunes can change, gentlemen. You'll find your benefactors less munificent come the end of Slam tonight, of that, I am reasonably certain. Because there's no way in hell either of y'all gonna be standin' after me an' Gray get through with ya.
We're done playin' nice. We're done waitin' our turn. Tonight, Rebellution takes the fight to Beach Crew, an' y'all ain't gonna be able to do a damn thing about it. Tempus vindice!
Bonnie gazes intently into the camera as the scene fades to black.
