The Most Dangerous Game

[Bonnie Blue]

The Most Dangerous Game

Part I: Fear and Loathing in Kanagawa Prefecture

We were just outside of Tokyo when the drugs began to take hold.

Bonnie Blue at the wheel of her Ford Ranchero -- the new one; she tells me her father upgraded it, whatever that means -- and me slumped in the passenger seat, feeling lightheaded. I remember smoking a big, fat fucking blunt full of some of the dankest shit you ever hope to blaze, but damn if I'd expected this.

Was it tainted? I wonder.

Did she smoke any of it?

I try to remember, but shit's getting pretty hazy. Bonnie seems to be holding it together, though, so I have to assume she didn't. Or else I'm more of a lightweight than I thought. The smirk she gives me has me leaning toward the former option.

"How ya doin', Hank? Feelin' ok?" she asks, all solicitous. "Don't pass out on me, now. We got a little bit of a drive ahead of us, an' I could use someone to talk to."

Struggling upright, I try to ask a question, but all that comes out are a series of animal grunts, odd vocalizations that bear no resemblance to words at all. An amused chuckle seems to echo all around me.

"Maybe I oughta do the talkin' for now, Hank," she tells me. "Ah, smell that ocean air comin' in off the bay! Never used to appreciate it before, y'know? These days, I don't take nothin' for granted. Me an' Wade, we spent the whole day at Yokohama beach yesterday. I got the worst sunburn, too. Look."

My eyes are drawn to her as she pulls at the collar of a plain, white T-shirt to show me skin a deep shade of pink, already beginning to fade to a subtle tan.

"Urghur nnnmgh," I manage, trying for sarcasm -- and failing miserably.

"Aw, that's sweet of ya, Hank, but I think it'll be all right. Anyway, it was totally worth it. Gorgeous day. The water was perfect. But then I had like this really weird dream last night. It was so vivid, I coulda sworn it was real. I dreamed that I was standing there in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, and I had this sudden compulsion: I reached up and started pulling at the sunburnt skin. It peeled off in big, long strips; an' underneath, the fresh skin was covered in scales, like a lizard... or a snake." She hesitates, glancing at me sideways as she switches lanes. "Freaky, right?"

Freaky? Freaky does not even begin to describe this situation. I find myself thinking that maybe Jay Omega had a point, all those things he'd said about her being corrupted by John Rabid's influence. No. On second thought, there's no maybe about it. I spent enough time in his presence -- under his power -- that I can tell. Not the same with her. It's not control; it's far more insidious than that. Bonnie sees him as a role model, of sorts, and that makes me ill at a spiritual level.

"Why are ya lookin' at me like that, Hank?" she asks, reading too easily the expression on my face. "Relax, bruh -- it was just a dream. Subconscious garbage. Y'ain't got nothin' to worry about, Hank. You're perfectly safe with me."

Perfectly safe. Seems to me, whenever anybody says those words, they're full of shit. How many times have I been assured that it was perfectly safe to interview someone like, say, Oblivion? Yeah. Sure. If, by perfectly safe, you mean I'll end up tied to a chair and forced to watch while the psycho butchers some poor woman and busts a nut in his shorts. Or you mean I'll get my brain hijacked by an intergalactic Edward Cullen and compelled to eat glass, walk on hot coals, castrate myself while singing "God Save the Queen" -- fuck knows what that sick bastard might come up with -- yeah, safe. Perfectly safe.

"D'ya know what the most dangerous game of all is, Hank?" Bonnie says, out of the blue.

Full-contact Yahtzee would be my guess. Or bareknuckle Parcheesi. But, no, please go on.

"Man," she continues. "That's what they say. You can hunt the cleverest of beasts, but in the end, it's still just a dumb animal. Sapience, though, seems to be the province of humanity, alone -- at least on this planet -- and makes a human bein' the most dangerous prey you can hunt. If you're into that sorta thing. You ever go huntin', Hank?"

Do I fucking look like I know the first thing about hunting? As if she can read my mind, she gives me a once-over and shakes her head.

"Nah, I reckon not. Me, neither, if that makes ya feel any better."

It doesn't.

"But we're gonna change all that today!"

Our velocity slows, and everything lurches to one side. I realize, after a minute, that she's pulling into a parking lot. The only other car is a forest ranger's pickup truck at the far end. She engages the brake and shuts off the engine before going around to the Ranchero's bed, lifting things out: a military surplus backpack with a couple of canteens strapped to it; a long, rectangular case such as might contain a rifle; a MagLite flashlight that could double as a cudgel; and a pair of heavy-duty steel shovels. Sluggishly, I feel my way to the door handle and open it. Any thought I had of making an escape evaporates when I try to stand, and my knees buckle, forcing me to hold onto the roof of the car. Not the drugs, this time. Too many hours with my legs cramped up in the same position had left them numb, at least until I moved. Now there's liquid fire coursing through my veins.

Once I can trust my legs to carry my weight, I push off from the car, staggering away -- but slowly, too slowly. The Time Witch intercepts me and guides me along a path into the woods, keeping one hand on my upper arm as we go.

"Gonna be a while 'fore that shit wears off," she tells me, sounding vaguely apologetic. "I kinda needed ya to be cooperative. Didn't think I could trust ya to hear me out, though."

Well, when you make cryptic remarks about the most dangerous game and going hunting, what else would you expect? Next she'll be telling me to stay out of her shed. Instead, however, she takes me deeper into the woods. Birds flit overhead, heedless of the dangers as they tweet back and forth at one another; noises meant as threat displays or mating calls, but ultimately without meaning. Too loud. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. I want them to stop.

We walk until my feet hurt, my blazer's soaked through with sweat, and there's a stitch in my side from unaccustomed activity. I'm not the outdoorsy type. I'm not into fitness. I do okay for a guy my age; my pants mostly still fit around my waist and I haven't had to buy new shirts in about five years. Ok, there's a little gap right above my belly button, and I had to cut another notch in my belt, but even so. Point is, I'm out of shape and whatever Bonnie laced that blunt with isn't helping matters. It's all I can do to stay upright, and I tell her so between wheezing gasps as I lean against a tree.

She stops and turns a scathing look on me with those sea-blue eyes, and a chill runs up my spine. In the span of a heartbeat, however, her demeanor changes. A rueful smile crawls along her lips, and she shakes her head.

"All right, Hank. We'll take five right here, but no more than that. Our quarry's just ahead."

"What are we hunting?" I ask, afraid already that I know the answer.

"Whom," she corrected. "Whom are we huntin'? Now, this is the part where you want me to get all philosophical, an' tell ya that I got everybody in that War match in my crosshairs -- which is technically true -- but this ain't that. This ain't some elaborate setup to lead into an interview, Hank."

Bonnie Blue paused, then, for dramatic effect.

"We're going to track down and kill a human being. For sport."

Her answer, expected as it may have been, still takes me by surprise. It wasn't what she said; it was how she said it. With absolute nonchalance, as if this were all business as usual. Damned strange transaction, if you ask me. Unfortunately, nobody did.

=================================================================

Part II: unfiltered

Here we are, once again, at WAR. First time for me, but my daddy won nearly six years ago at WAR X, eliminatin' Odin Balfore -- the All-Father himself -- to seize vict'ry that night. Couldn't make it last year, seein' as how I was doin' time exiled to a tangent reality. Turns out, that exile was the best thing that ever happened to me. Right after 1he wav3 hit, I found myself a free agent... for about two minutes, before recruiters started to come callin'. Wasn't just UCI, oh no. There was at least a half-dozen other promotions scoutin' Bonnie Blue. Just 'cause WCF refused to acknowledge my talent, tried to kill my career by bookin' me in worthless, time-wastin' matches, sent me out the door feelin' like the lowest of the low; well, that didn't mean there weren't others watchin', waitin' for the opportunity. Those scouts knew what Seth Lerch couldn't bring himself to see, what Howard Black an' Joey Flash tried to grind under their bootheels -- that Bonnie Blue's name on a contract is a guarantee of success for any fledgling promotion.

I'm the single most decorated wrestler in UCI: twice the Intercontinental Champion, two-time Tag Team Champion, former World Champion -- with the second-longest reign in UCI history -- an' only the second-ever Triple Crown Champion. I'm the leader of the most dominant faction in professional wrestling today. My name in the main event sells out arenas. All of that accomplished in just under a year, an' not any of it thanks to a single experience or person at WCF. It was me. All me.

And when it comes to WAR, my goal is simple; my mission is clear. I ain't interested in makin' any of y'all #BendTheKnee. This time, I'm out for blood. Everyone who doubted me, who laughed in my face an' told me I wasn't shit in the ring an' even less on the mic... all your contempt, I'll visit back on each an' every one of y'all a thousandfold.

Can a single one of y'all imagine how demoralizin' it is to work your ass off in trainin', work your ass off to cut a promo, an' then look at the view counter next to your post an' it tops out at twelve views -- at best? Everybody else, even people ain't nobody ever heard of before, gettin' thirty-plus, but 'cause I am who I am -- ignored. You know what words will never be said in regards to Yours Truly?

"There's no shame in losing to Bonnie Blue. She's a great wrestler."

An' it ain't 'cause there's a single lie in any of them words -- refer to my previous point about bein' the most decorated wrestler in UCI. It's because none of y'all will even give me a chance. Rabid did, for a second, but he lost interest once he was done with me; an' that's still more respect than I've ever gotten outta anyone else here. I busted my ass for this comp'ny since my return, but none of that matters in the Dub. All that matters is the lingering stigma cast on me by Joey Flash and his dipshit fan club.

I was gonna walk up in here an' win this thing, just like my father did; I reckoned with Odin Balfore in the mix, there'd be somethin' poetic in that. Like maybe Odin might be my good luck charm, too. But then I thought about it, an' I realized that if -- a mighty big if -- I actually walked outta WAR the victor, then I'd be stuck with you cocksuckers until One. An' then after I take that World Title off John Rabid -- 'cause, let's face it, we all know who's walkin' outta WAR with that belt -- well, after that, then I'm stuck with this responsibility of representin' a company that ain't done shit for me.... but constantly shit all over me.

Why the fuck would I want that?

Well, there's one reason I could think of.

It's a little petty, but it would sure as hell be fun to do the thing Kevin Bishop couldn't manage: to hold the top prize in not one, but two companies simultaneously.

See, I'm takin' my UCI World Title back at Killin' Floor. An' it'd sure be nice to have that WCF World Title shot waitin' on me at One. Even if I didn't win, steppin' into the ring with the only person in this company who even matters anymore would be a triumph in itself. But if I did, could y'all imagine? Two world titles, two seperate companies...

An' still, some peanut-butter-an'-jealous motherfucker would try to piss on my single, glorious moment. That's all this place is anymore: one golden shower after another. My father would be ashamed, now, to be a part of this comp'ny. Its heyday is long past. A few old, grizzled veterans still hangin' on -- Gravedigger, Jayson Price, Oblivion, Frankie, Steve Orbit, the aforementioned Odin Balfore. A few remain in the waning years of their prime, once the greatest names of a generation. The previous generation.

But this time? This time is mine. My star is risen, but there is so much higher to climb. An' that begins with the statement I make this week at WAR. That statement -- is a big middle finger to everyone who ever screwed me over. I mean, at least with classic-formula #beachkrew, it was expected. We had our roles to play in those days. They were the bad guys; me an' my squad were the good guys, fightin' the good fight. We didn't understand the true evil that had infested this organization; that the #beachkrew of old was merely a symptom of an overall greater illness. We couldn't have conceived of it -- the most experienced among us was Grayson Pierce an' folks was still callin' him a rookie two years into his career -- that the WCF was rotting from within, full of maggots feasting on the decay.

Maggots like Joey fucking Flash. With Corey Black on his way out, might as well go ahead and crown him the new King of Shit Mountain. That's all it takes to appease the mindless, drooling masses. Artistic integrity? What's that? Oh, yeah... BORING! Right? Boring like Bonnie Blue? Yeah, fuck you, you herpetic cunt. I hope you an' Jared Holmes die choking on each other's dicks.

Oh, wait -- neither of those copraphiliacs are in this match. Unless, of course, they are. Who knows? It's WAR, and shit gets crazy up in here!

But I reckon there's more relevant targets. Every name I've mentioned so far is old news. There ain't no more mountains for them old goats to climb. They need to step aside; an' if they won't get to steppin', I'll get to shovin'.

Lotta faces, lotta names 'round here I don't even recognize, 'cause frankly, I'm not payin' attention. Got enough goin' on at UCI, chasin' belts, reclaimin' belts, leadin' the Guardians... an' dealin' with the treacherous actions of Andre Holmes. Who, apparently, ain't the same Andre Holmes as here. Thanks to 1he wav3, now we got two, an' I can't imagine that's a good thing. One was a handful all by himself.

I don't rightly know this partic'lar Andre Holmes; he ain't the one from back in the Rebellution days, with Gray an' DeMarcus. But I ain't got no reason to give him too much shit. Dude's held that Hardcore strap longer'n anybody in recent memory, an' that ain't no joke. Thing is, 'fore he turned on us, I was trainin' nearly every day with our Andre. If'n you're anything like him, then you know what that means. Then again, I hope you're not. I hope you're a man of integrity an' honor. But you wrestle here, an' you're one of the favored -- a member of Panthe-yawn -- so I reckon integrity an' honor are just words in a dictionary to you.

Won't much matter, in the long run. Chances are, our paths never cross in that ring. You don't even know who I am, so you'll have bigger priorities. Same as literally every other person in WAR. Not one of you will pay attention to little ol' Bonnie Blue. 'Cause I'm a loser. I'm boring. That's why I dominate at UCI, right?

Oh... I forgot. We're a "lesser" company.

A lesser company that, from its inception, drew names like Crow McMorris, Frank Patrick Venable, Howard Black, David Sanchez, Jay Omega, Nathan Von Liebert; even Alex Richards came out of retirement for the opportunity. Yet you all dare to speak of my company as if it's some fly-by-night operation, ready to blow away in the slightest breeze. We're going on our second year, stronger than ever. When the WCF is nothing but dust and bad memories, UCI will still be a dominant force in the realm of professional wrestling. No. THE dominant force.

Unlike your little Luke Starkiller. Is that Logan in disguise or Lilith in drag? Too masculine to be Sarah Twilight. In fact, he looks like he ought to be a member of the Mustache clan from over in our neck of the woods. Obnoxious enough. Overconfident, arrogant, and ugly as homemade sin. If ya got an extra Y chromosome, ya might wanna get a paternity test done, son.

Anyway, Logan Force. Come back to peep in the womens' locker room? Oh, let's not be so limiting; I know you peep the boys, too, an' it ain't just to see how you measure up. Do you measure up? You must, the way you got the whole locker room ridin' your dick. Honestly, I dunno shit about you, an' I don't care to. You're bein' touted as the next big thing around here, which basically means you're one of two dozen other cookie-cutter wrestlers that perfectly conforms to the WCF mold. Not a spark of creativity among the whole bunch, yet each hailed as some kind of artistic genius 'cause you can perfectly capture the ennui of a travelin' man committed to his career, maybe tryin' to balance family life in there, throw in some good, juicy drama about a mortgage or your kid gettin' a C on their report card, and... man, I almost just put myself to sleep with all that.

For real, I dunno if that's your deal -- an' I really couldn't give any fewer fucks -- but it's the kinda shit these unimaginative mouth-breathers suck up like coke through a Benjamin, so it's an educated guess.

Speaking of inexplicable dick-riding, y'all all about that Social Justice fag Sid Warwick.

Oh, gasp! Bonnie said fag! Yep. I'm gonna blame ZMAC for that one. Y'all remember ol' Z, right? That dude this company fucked over harder than it did me? Not even the courtesy of a reach-around, neither. Well, anyway, me an' him been gettin' real acquainted lately; two matches in less than two months. Some of it's bound to rub off. But with Zombie, I got him all figured out. He likes teasin' me, tauntin' me; threatenin's just his way of flirtin', an' fightin' is foreplay. The man's never been anything but honest about that.

Sid W, on the other hand, we all know what kinda guy he is. His interest in social issues begins an' ends with his cock. Sure, he's great at fakin' his way through some pretty impressive, long-winded rants about one cause or another, but in the long run? He's one of those douchebags that joins causes for the sole purpose of picking up some easy pussy. Only sincere bone in his whole body's the three inches in his pants. He's the kinda guy who'd go to a #BlackLivesMatter event and be pervin' on the girl who just lost her brother to police violence. He wears Bernie Sanders T-shirts to impress college freshmen, but privately agrees that America should build a border wall. Dude is a house of cards built on a foundation of lies. But they're good lies. He sells them well. And really, that's all anyone cares about. Selling the gimmick -- as long as it's the right gimmick.

Yeah. Like, my "sci-fi shit" don't fly. People "don't understand it" an' therefore it's "boring." People are advised not to rea-- er, watch my promos.

Time travel? Boring, overcomplicated, an' stupid.

But vaporwave-seapunk aliens trying to take over the world? Makes absolute sense, totally believable.

We could have all worked a great story together, if certain people weren't so petty. In spite of all the assurances that this wouldn't be like before, I find myself feeling like the dorky girl voted prom queen at the end of literally every teen movie ever made. A single instant of joy, before the crushing realization that I was lifted up on high only so that I would have that much further to fall when the hammer came down. The whole school is laughin' at me, even the ones I thought were my friends.

You're only laughin' 'cause y'all don't get the joke.

And at WAR, I'm the one deliverin' the punchline!

=================================================================

"Did ya honestly just record that, Hank?" she asks me, a warning in her eyes.

"Not at all," I reply with a nonchalant shrug."I streamed that shit. You've been on Facebook Live for the last half hour. I hit the button right after you said we were gonna murder a guy. You want to tell the Dub-See-Eff fans about that?"

I'm feeling pretty triumphant -- until I remember that I'm alone in the woods with a woman who might be unhinged, and definitely has the means, motive, and opportunity. The smile she turns on me does nothing to alleviate my concerns.

"Oh, Hank... so thoughtful of you. I was wondering how I'd manage a promo when we're going to be so busy out here. And believe me, I do want the fans to have a full an' detailed accountin' of our adventures, but not like this. On-camera, live, without even the right lighting? The fans deserve better. Shut off the stream. You're going to write it all down, like a real journalist."

To be continued....