Hard Target

[Bonnie Blue]

Hard Target

Part III: Songs of the Doomed

Dawnlight punches my jaw and creeps slowly up my face; a luminous spider that pounces suddenly on my eyes and jolts me awake. After yesterday's hike over the rough trails winding through the foothills of the Tanzawa Mountain range, every muscle in my body responds to this new state of being in aching protest. I feel like a screen door that's been slammed once too often -- and if I could think further than that, it might be an apt metaphor for something.

Bonnie's already awake -- or, more likely, she never slept -- and looks fresh as a daisy. Yesterday's miles didn't wear on her. Maybe nothing does, aside from the constant disappointment she expressed with the way things run in the Dub. I can't help thinking she's got a point: Some people can get away with anything, no matter how vile or reprehensible. And I mean that backstage stuff nobody wants to talk about. Nobody. The kind of shit that led, ultimately, to the Mexico Incident. Shit that Seth probably should have shut down much sooner, but let's face it, the boss loves the drama. At least while he can control it, manage it, shape it to his own whims. Once he loses control and it goes all Hurricane Maria out there, alleged images of people's junk go flying around; then it's like trying to put the lid back on Pandora's box after all the evils have escaped.

A tin cup full of reasonably hot coffee is thrust into my hands as I sit upright, and I think to myself that, as kidnappings go, this one isn't so bad. My line of work, you learn to find those silver linings where you can. While I get acquainted with the day, wishing for a little rum to augment the coffee and still the tremor in my hands, Bonnie Blue sets the rifle case on the ground and begins to carefully unpack the weapon. We're not talking some common deer rifle you can get at any Cabela's or Field and Stream; this thing a work of art. A lightweight Barrett .308 sniper rifle in powder-coated blue steel, custom made to accomodate her compact frame. Once she has it put together, Bonnie slings the rifle across her back.

"Time to make yourself useful, Hank," she tells me, handing over a canteen and the two shovels.

We leave the rest of the campsite as it is. Hidden from view by a stand of low junipers, distant enough from the main trail not to be accidentally discovered, it's an ideal spot if you're doing something shady and illicit. Bonnie stays off the tourist paths, sticking to game trails through dense underbrush. Some part of my consciousness worries about ticks and lyme disease, until I remind myself that there are spiders the size of Shaquille O'Neal in these godforsaken woods.

"Y'know somethin', Hank?" Bonnie begins, her tone thoughtful. "It's awful difficult to shed your old ethics in favor of a different paradigm. When I first arrived in this company, I had a head full of these notions about right and wrong; dark and light; good and evil. There were Jedi and there were Sith, and everybody fit into one of those categories. Took a long time -- and a lot of ass-whoopin' -- before I understood it wasn't that simple."

Ah, here comes the justification part of our immorality play, in this theater of the bizarre.

"Black an' white are really only shades of gray. Two points on a spectrum, nothin' more. You got your white-hat cowboy types, the Frankie Venables of the world; you got your would-be tyrants in men like David Sanchez; then there's the whole range of in-between. Dudes like Steve Orbit or Shadowlove -- they ain't good, they ain't bad, they're just honest. Sometimes Shadow can be a real scumbag, while Steve Orbit's got a heart of gold he keeps concealed behind that no-nonsense exterior. Then there's guys like Oblivion or Mikey eXtreme -- bloodthirsty psychopaths with no real goal in their careers aside from turning the ring into a #KillingFloor. Guys like that are the anchors of a wrestlin' comp'ny. Everybody loves a monster, an' the scarier, the better... just so long as there's heroes to oppose them."

Heroes. Like she used to be. Rebellution. The Guardians. Bonnie Blue was always the heart and soul of either group; now the brains of the latter, as well. She's got Alex Richards fooled into thinking the whole bad girl routine was just a phase. If only he could see us now. How strong is his faith in his tag team partner? What excuses would he make for her in this moment? Hell, I still don't even know who it is we're chasing after; only that they've led us on a wild goose chase through bracken and bramble, leaving a trail of sprung traps, but no other clues. Each time Bonnie discovers a snapped tripwire or a downed deadfall, she makes a mental note of it, then shrugs and moves on. I get it. She's using in-ring experience as a parallel to this hunting thing. Every trap her prey comes across has to be disarmed or avoided, and that takes up time, wastes energy -- just like a near pinfall in the ring. Little by little, she's wearing her opponent down.

"Thing is," she says, continuing her train of thought, "there's different kinds of heroes. Take a guy like Jay Omega, for example. He's got the moves, he's got the looks, he's even got catchphrases! He's a marketing dynamo. There should be comic books and movies about his exploits. Big damn hero, right? But have you seen him in the ring? It's not all flash and funk; the guy is hard to the core, and he ain't above a little rule-bending when it suits him. In spite of all that, the fans love him. An' he ain't the only one, so I'm not gonna single him out just 'cause we haven't satisfactorily resolved our issues. That day will come soon enough.

"Then there's guys like Jayson Price, proud member of Panthe-yawn... sometimes? I don't even know anymore. Panthe-yawn's been through so many incarnations, I can't keep 'em all straight. Like, at one time or another, everybody on the WCF roster has probably been a member of that once-respectable group. Hell, even Johnny Reb was, for a minute -- though I'm sure we'd all like to forget about that. But the point is, what does a man like Jayson Price stand for? Rampant alcoholism and relentless womanizing? That seems to be standard operating procedure. I guess at least he's not flashing his dick at people who don't want to see it: his lawyers locked up that allegedly leaked porno real tight. You wanna see Price's junk, you gotta pay actual money. So there's one thing he stands for. Profits."

Another point nobody can deny. Price wouldn't. The man all but has his net worth tattooed on his forehead. There are some boundaries of good taste that even Jayson Price won't cross. Yet. On the other hand, he's also the man who stepped in and bankrolled UCI when the company's growth exceeded the capital Spencer Adams had on hand to invest.

"You're also talking about the man who singlehandedly saved your precious United Championship Infinite," I point out to her, smug.

She nods in agreement. "Absolutely, and ain't nobody more grateful for that than I am. But then he wanted to change too much, too fast. It wasn't the bigger venues or the travel; it was the fact that he was trying to turn UCI into a clone of WCF. He wanted to dictate which storylines would get air time, who would get pushed, who would get the next title shots; in short, he was tryin' to bully his way into total ownership of the company. And that's when Civil War happened. That night, me an' Kevin Bishop stood side-by-side against the forces of unchecked capitalist profiteering. That same night, he let me eat a pin so he could go on to claim a shot at the UCI World Title, while I had to claw my way to prominence. A month later, I was kickin' Steve Corah's ass at his very own game to take back my Intercontinental strap -- and it was that match that forever marked me as UCI's Queen of Hardcore. It wasn't the World Title, like I wanted, but that didn't mean I was gonna cherish it any less. I worked harder for my belt than Kevin Bishop did for his. He wants to act like he dominated that clusterfuck at Black Mass, when all he did was take advantage of the fact that two of the superior athletes in the match were preoccupied with tryin' to kill one another, and he only barely got that pinfall on Alex Richards in the first place.

"Over and over, I said Kevin Bishop was a fraud, and I proved it a little more'n a month later when I secured my first victory over the champ -- in a non-title match. I wasn't supposed to, y'know. Spencer was countin' on Kevin Bishop to get the one-two-three an' shut me up about my title shot once an' for all. He couldn't have little Bonnie Blue showin' up his handpicked champion... but I did. Still had to wait nearly four whole months to finally get my shot; appropriately enough, at Lazarus. And I did not waste that opportunity. Reckon you could say I made a big splash when I took that title off Kevin Bishop's waist. Oh, how I wish I could take all the credit for the moment that followed. It was truly a thing of beauty, though all too fleeting and ephemeral."

Beauty? I hardly think so. Call it trading up, or a smart business move, or whatever; they're all excuses for selling out. And for what? Where did it get you? Questions dance on the tip of my tongue, but my voice dies in my throat as she suddenly stops, throwing up a fist in the universal gesture to halt. I draw up short, and miss running into her knuckles by a breath. Bonnie turns to me then, a finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet. At another gesture, I crouch in the underbrush, and try really hard not to think about the giant centipede ambling along in the leaf litter beside me.

Footsteps swish through the dry leaves somewhere ahead, regular enough that even I can tell it's someone on the trail. Bonnie ducks into the bushes across the path, all her attention focused on whatever's coming. Personally, I hope it's a cop, but I know that's not likely. From my vantage, I can see her kneeling, rifle stock set against her left shoulder as she peers through the scope. Hardly do I have time to plug my ears when the shot rings out, sending a dozen birds squawking into terrified flight. The bullet zips past the approaching figure and embeds itself into a tree. He draws up short just as he comes into view, ice-blue eyes wide with surprise, his familiar boyish features slack in the barest instant of incomprehension. Then they twist into a snarl of rage, and he turns away in haste, running -- quite literally -- for his life, even as Bonnie Blue takes aim again.

The second shot goes wide, exploding into the dirt several feet to the man's left. He shifts direction, and Bonnie fires a third shot that sends her prey tumbling out of sight down a rocky slope. I hear a sharp, triumphant hiss under her breath -- or maybe it's my imagination. Drugs still haven't worn off entirely, and I sort of wonder if she put another dose in the morning's coffee. Doesn't matter. She's on her feet in an instant, dashing down the hillside, and it's all I can do to keep up with her.

She's kneeling on the ground when I come to a ragged halt just behind; her fingers wet with fresh blood, brow furrowed in thought. A wicked smile slithers seductively across her lips as she reaches down to clean her hands in the dew-moistened grass. The Time Witch stands and turns that smile on me; I'm thankful I stopped to take a piss half an hour ago.

"Well, we tagged him, anyway," she says, determined to make the best of it.

Hold on. We? I'm a captive audience on this venture; you're the one with a hard-on for murdering Paul Rudd. I mean, he did do those sappy Judd Apatow films, but I hardly think that's grounds for killing a man. Besides which, Ant-Man was entertaining enough to almost make up for that. But could that possibly be the same Paul Rudd who expertly avoided every snare, pit, and bear trap she'd placed along the trails? I'd heard rumors that Rudd was more than your average Hollywood pretty-boy. It had even been said he'd killed Alex Richards -- but that turned out not to be true: Richards is alive and well, and currently one half of the UCI Tag Team Champions once again. The other half, of course, being her.

Bonnie Blue rises from her crouch with natural grace and sets off, following an indistinct path marked by occasional dots of crimson. Soon enough, however, even those uncertain markings give way only to the signs of vegetation disturbed in the man's passing. Either Rudd isn't as badly injured as she'd thought, or he's managed to bind the gunshot wound. Considering the man's utter lack of morals -- if he is, indeed, Paul Rudd's evil doppelganger from the other universe -- I find little comfort in those possibilities. One silver thread of hope dangles overhead; nevermind the sword of Damocles tethered to the end, I grasp for it. I can slip away, unnoticed, once the inevitable confrontation begins.

That's the plan, anyway. But how often does a plan survive contact with the enemy?

I can see the back of Rudd's shirt as we approach. He kneels beside a stream of crystal waters, trying to clean a deep graze in his side with a monogrammed silk pocket square, wincing every time the cold water makes contact with broken skin. Bonnie pulls the lever back on her rifle with a loud clack that brings her prey's head up, casting about for the source of the sound. Blue eyes widen in surprise as they take in the young woman pointing a sniper rifle at him. With slow caution, Paul Rudd raises his hands and stands up to face us. His gaze is wild, desperate, as it shifts from side to side, seeking a way out. Finally, he comes back to her with a glare.

"Well?" he says, spreading his arms wide. "What are you waiting for, Bonnie? You'll never get a clearer shot!"

"Not here." She gestures with the barrel of the rifle. "Over there. Hank, give him a shovel."

I'm really not sure this is a good idea, but I follow her instructions as Rudd moves to the indicated spot. Bonnie isn't taking any chances, covering both of us as she orders a hole to be dug. Not really in the mood to be shot today, I break ground before Paul even figures out which end of the shovel to use. From the corner of my eye, I watch him test the heft; can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he calculates the probability of successfully attacking her with it. She can see it, too, and her finger tightens on the trigger.

Reluctantly, Rudd starts to dig, too. Even with the pair of us working, it takes until the sun starts to sink beneath the distant horizon before the Daughter of Time is satisfied. Finished, we've dug a pit just under six feet in depth, and wide enough to accomodate one person standing upright. I don't want any part of what comes next, so I'm relieved when she orders me back to her side. My chances of surviving this venture have just skyrocketed.

Paul Rudd, however, has other ideas. He looks at the hole, then at Bonnie Blue, and last, at the shovel in his blistered hands; he seems to come to some decision. And for one moment, everything resolves into ultra-clarity. I observe the moment like an out of body experience, while yet from my own internal perspective. It's weird, but I let myself roll with it. I know what Rudd's going to do before he knows himself. There's no inclination to stop him as he clears the space between them in a single bound, shovel lifted high overhead. It looks like a full-page illustration in a comic book, the way he's silhouetted against the reddening sun, poised to attack in mid-flight.

All at once, several things happen: Bonnie drops the rifle to the ground and readies herself. Just as Rudd prepares to land a nasty blow with the steel head of the shovel, Bonnie's lightning-fast reflexes stop his progress with an epic superkick. Paul Rudd crashes down to earth, a bootprint on his face, breathing labored. With only slight difficulty, she manhandles the crazed actor down into the pit, then retrieves her rifle and points it at him. Her sea-blue gaze shifts to me, and that wicked smile returns.

"Bury him, Hank," Bonnie Blue says. "Bury him like Joey Flash buried my WCF career."

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Part IV: reap the whirlwind

Walls of painted cinderblock and a single, naked bulb -- in keeping with our awakened times, a brand-new LED, rather than the old, inefficient incandescent --serve as a minimalist setting. Seated astride a backward-facing plain, steel chair of the type usually reserved for hitting people, is Bonnie Blue, dressed in her revealing ring attire. Her arms are folded across the back of the chair as she surveys the camera over the rims of teal shutter shades.

The question on my mind these days is, "Why did I come to WCF in the first place?" You know... what was I lookin' for? Was I tryin' to relive my father's old glory, or make a name for myself? Perhaps the more important question is, "Why am I tryin' to preserve a legacy that's already been forgotten?"

I mean, really -- why?

I keep blaming Joey Flash for destroying my credibility the instant the ink was dry on my WCF contract -- an' not even with any active malicious purpose. That's the worst of it. He had no idea who I was, still doesn't, it was just a by-product of his complete and utter dismissal of me. One man determined that I essentially didn't exist, and so, no matter what challenges I may overcome; no matter who I pin, which veteran talents I reduce to a mockery of themselves; no matter what I go out and achieve anywhere in the world of professional wrestlin' -- none of it counts for anything in the one place where I briefly thought....

Well, it doesn't matter, does it?

But should I give Joey Flash all the credit?

I mean, Corey Black's been systematically dismantling any contribution Johnny Reb may have ever made to Panthe-yawn, to the point where I'm the only one who still remembers when his was a respected name.

And then there were Logan, Katherine Phoenix, and Dag Riddick -- who stepped right in the middle of a feud me and Rebellution had going with #beachkrew -- and basically shoved us out of the picture. Then Phoenix, being the considerate person she was, later informed me that everyone in #beachkrew was talking shit about me and never wanted the feud. I wanted to think that, because it was KP, she was just being her usual manipulative cunt self -- but there's really no way to know for sure.

That said, all else aside, it really was an honor to be a part of the #beachkrew phenomenon, and I will always be grateful to Jared and to John for giving me the opportunity. Along with Wade --

Her face softens, and the hint of a smile dances at her lips as she mentions his name.

-- they all tried to help restore my career in the Dub, though ultimately to no avail. My only meaningful match since my return from exile was at Aftermath, when I hit not one, but two finishers on David Sanchez to finally defeat the man who had plagued me from the earliest days of UCI; who drilled me with that Medusa's Touch more times than I care to count; and who still had more respect for me than the entire WCF roster combined.

Well, let me back up. That's not fair. Zombie McMorris. Me an' him got off on the wrong foot at first, but we got our shit sorted out since then. I reckon he's not even mad I kinda broke his arm at Rite of Passage last Monday night -- dude does heal pretty fast -- although he might be slightly annoyed over me an' Alex takin' them tag belts back to become the first team in UCI to reclaim the Tag Team Championship. On the other hand, that motherfucker did the thing this comp'ny denied him the opportunity to do: Our Coked-up Madman went an' won himself the World Title!

David Sanchez and Zombie McMorris. Two dudes with a real unhealthy fixation on Bonnie Blue, yet among the very select handful of y'all who hold me in any kind of esteem. And when I talk about disrespect, I don't mean the shit-talkin' goes on in front of the camera, like now. That's part of the profession. You get in your opponent's head, under their skin; wear 'em down. What I mean is once the camera stops rollin', we ain't in the ring, an' the crowds are long gone... an' y'all still gotta do me dirty.

What I'm gettin' at is, I'm awful tired of tryin' to impress people who are determined not to be. At one point, I thought I could change things. Thought I could win some of y'all over. That maybe I could fix whatever I did wrong. I work my ass off in this career, for UCI and WCF alike; but over there, I'm a multiple-time champion, whereas here I'm the joke that gets booked against a person who's entire gimmick is literally a CW series -- and he leaves two weeks after an apparently decisive victory over a former UCI World Champion. Maybe at XIII me an' Alex could have an exhibition match against the Gilmore Girls.

Bonnie pulls her shutter shades down and peers over the rims, her mouth quirking in a sardonic smirk.

Most of y'all never saw the real superstar standin' right in front of you. A few, but not many. Certainly not Seth Lerch, who doesn't book me for weeks, then sticks me in a match with some second-rate beta cuck who couldn't even bother researchin' the person he was gettin' into the goddamn ring with. I mean, I honestly didn't realize he was allegedly a real person until, like, Saturday... an' I still had time to look him up an' figure out he had virtually no background. Thing is, a quick Google search woulda told anybody all they needed to know 'bout Bonnie Blue -- like how, at the time, I was the UCI World Champion, not to mention the numerous other accolades that combine to make me still the most decorated athlete on the UCI roster. All that to speak for me, an' I get Dawson fucking Creek. I mean, I smoke blunts while I'm training for matches -- if you wanted to get rid of me, just write me up on a wellness policy violation!

But you didn't, Seth. Instead you chose to humiliate me -- on live television! So now I'm gonna do the same goddamn thing to everyone I come across in that ring! On Sunday night, War is my arena, and at my hands, the lifeblood of WCF will flow.

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Yeah, well, of course I do what Bonnie tells me; she's still got the gun, after all. Once I get the dirt piled up just over Rudd's shoulders, she calls to me to stop. Then she walks over grasping a pneumatic injector and jabs the tip against his neck. With a quick puff of air, the deed is done, and she withdraws.

"Subcutaneous tracker," she informs me, though I didn't ask. "Connects back to R-Seven through a highly encrypted satellite uplink."

Dumbfounded, I stare at the Daughter of Time as my tired mind tries to process this revelation.

"You mean, you never really intended to kill Paul Rudd?"

"Well, not today. We got a score to settle, an' trust me, I'm gonna settle it. But for now, I'll have to content myself with scaring him a little. I needed him good an' scared, so he'd call the cavalry in for a rescue."

It's then I notice the subtle thrum of helicopter blades chopping rhythmically through the air. There isn't time for further questions as Bonnie Blue grabs my arm and teleports us out of there.

(to be concluded....)