Post by Bonnie Blue on Jul 13, 2018 16:35:32 GMT -5
What have I become,
My sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away
In the end…
-- Nine Inch Nails, “Hurt"
My sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away
In the end…
-- Nine Inch Nails, “Hurt"
Pristine and white, a duvet lay crumpled and forgotten on the cedarwood floor. The entire hotel room was a study in disarray: the mini-bar had been ransacked after they’d finished a fifth of Patrón; accent pillows lay scattered across the room; clothes strewn carelessly, discarded in frenzied urgency. A lacy turquoise bra hung off a lampshade, the torn remains of matching panties tangled in bedsheets where two lovers finally gave vent to weeks of pent up desire.
A single drop of perspiration followed the arc of her back, as strong hands guided her hips in steady rhythm. Moment by moment, pleasure washed over the pair in gentle waves; tension building gradually with a quickening pace.
A powerful thrust tore a cry of ecstasy from her lips; again, and again, every bit as savage between the sheets as between the ropes. She trembled, just on the edge of release, as he drew her into his arms. Kissing his neck, she could feel his pulse thundering against her lips, arousing a new kind of desire, dark and nearly irresistible.
Control was no more than an illusion as the rising tide of rapture broke over them and swept the pair of lovers away.
The Oasis Hotel at Death Valley
Friday, July XIII, 2018
Dear Mr. Caine,
Don't read too much into that; it's a formal heading, nothing more. I shouldn't have to explain that, but you're one of those men who reads encyclopedic volumes into the slightest gesture, however innocent.
This fixation of yours is an embarrassment. Not to me, of course. Y’ain’t the first, and you damn sure won't be the last. Even men of much stronger character have developed too keen an interest, though they can hardly be blamed. Raw talent, blinding charisma, and in-ring skills so finely honed that nobody can put my shoulders down cleanly -- if at all.
I lost my tag title to a cheating trio of shitbags.
I lost my hardcore title without even being pinned.
I lost my one and only opportunity for a shot at the world title to a hasty sucker punch.
I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose here and now, to you, in the middle of this gods-forsaken desert. Can you imagine what people would say?
Nobody thinks much of me getting pinned by Michael X or Stephen Singh or Odin Balfore; after all, it's only what they expected, right?
Yeah, well, fuck all of them, too.
But, you, Mr. Caine -- you got the better of me once, but unless you're bringing the entire Church of Singh with you, you can fucking forget any goddamn notion you got of walking outta this match with the ‘W’. I said it before, that no man beats me twice, and there still ain't no lie in that. Technically, Mikey is the only one, and even that required the combined efforts of three men.
So, tell me again how I'm the so-called ‘Establishment’, Mr. Caine.
Point out to me all the times I was just handed a title shot, simply for showing up. Go ahead and dig through three years of me getting passed over, ignored, sexually harassed, fired, rehired, and generally abused by this company; all while being told my day was just on the horizon. I'll wait.
Find it yet?
How about now?
No, you fucking didn't, and you won't, because I have to fight twice as hard every damn week to prove I belong here. To be taken seriously as a competitor. Ten times as hard to earn even the promise of a title shot.
And all of it because of this backward ass, regressive attitude that women are inferior -- an attitude tolerated by management and perpetuated by men like you. Or did you imagine that I'd forgotten about your weird little misogynist manifestos on Twitter?
You know, the ones where you implied that, because I won't sleep with you, I'm some kind of indiscriminate wanton profligate -- that's a fancy way of saying ho, by the way -- and how you're gonna make me pay for spurning your weird, creepy advances? I mean, is that supposed to endear you to me, change my mind, drive me wild with desire? Is that how you think this shit works? Or would you simply be satisfied to intimidate a woman into sucking your UNTHICK?
Bonnie Blue don't intimidate easy, sugar. Ask anybody. Ask John Rabid, since you're so damn concerned about how me and him are getting along these days; ask him whether I backed down after that time he tried to kill me. Ask David Sanchez whether I backed down when he was still running Chicago like a tin-pot tyrant, threatening me and mine week after week. Ask Wade Moor whether I backed down when #beachkrew deprived me of a partner, turning a tag match into a handicap match against Godnilla and Oblivion. Ask Dune whether I backed down after he dropped me with a Sandstorm onto a steel chair.
How's the picture I'm painting so far?
The point is, better men than you have made the attempt, and failed to frighten or coerce me into submission. You are outclassed in every regard, Mr. Caine, though by the time you realize it, it'll be far too late. Unless you're still deluding yourself that you didn't just play right into my hands.
Then again, self-delusion may be your greatest skill. After all, you've managed to convince yourself that I could ever be interested in you. Why would I, when you've demonstrated levels of disrespect for women matched only by Shane Styles, a man who's masculinity is so fragile that he refuses to face female competitors, then tries to deflect criticism by claiming he ‘ain't no woman-beater.’ Which, honestly, he never will be. He'll never beat anyone, but that's beside the point -- which is that you and Styles are two sides of the same aberrant coin, Mr. Caine. A coin I intend to remove from circulation.
Especially now that you're mortal, and claiming that you always were. My, my, aren't we just full of tall tales? You and I, though, we both know that truth lies somewhere between fiction and fact. And by the time we're through, Mr. Caine, the point will be wholly academic. Just as you intend to ‘punish’ my ‘transgressions’, I have every notion of splitting your skull open and leaving your carcass for the buzzards.
Trust me, the company won't miss ya.
The fans won't miss ya.
And neither will I, Mr. Caine.
You fear a woman empowered by her sexual liberation; you loathe the fact that in my reckless pursuit, I overlook the creepy little troll sitting in the corner with his dick in his hand while he proclaims himself worldly and refined.
You're a fool, Jackson Caine. Stepping in that ring with me ain’t your first bad decision -- not by a long shot -- but it is damn sure gonna be your last. Bonnie Blue don't fuck around, and you're about to learn that firsthand; just like Teo Del Sol, Kyle Kemp, Frank Venable, Kevin Bishop, Leon Hayze, the list goes on… but unfortunately, hotel stationery does not.
I'm running out of paper, and frankly, anything further to say to you. No use conversing with a dead man. Enjoy the remaining hours, Mr. Caine, and use them well.
Because they are your last.
The clock is ticking.
Farewell, Mr. Caine.
Bonnie Blue sat at the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a short silk kimono. Tousled blonde hair cascaded loose down her shoulders, a blunt smoldered between crimson-stained lips, and behind her lay David Sanchez; sprawled beneath the sheets in blissful, exhausted sleep. Breathing deeply, she exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke with a sigh as a sanguine feeling stole over her. Two months of ever-building tension, always there, just beneath the surface; discharged at last in glorious, chaotic passion. She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled in satisfaction.
Worth it, she thought; but whether she meant the long-nurtured anticipation, or the act of lovemaking itself, Bonnie couldn't be entirely sure.
Or perhaps it was something else. The years between them had been filled with enmity and strife. He'd stalked and harassed her, had nearly blinded her previous tag team partner; he'd brutally seized political control of the city of Chicago, then embarked on a campaign of ruthless, iron-fisted dominion. And so long as he called it gentrification, so long as his jack-booted thugs targeted only the disenfranchised, nobody really had much to say about the whole affair.
Nobody but the Guardians.
In the end, nobody but Bonnie Blue. Polar Phantasm had started the war against the Mayor, then promptly fucked off to go do meth, leaving the young, inexperienced Daughter of Time to clean up his mess. That had become a pattern of disturbing regularity, and Bonnie reflected that the Guardians were, in fact, better off under her guidance.
She recalled the first time she and David Sanchez had met outside the ring. The blackened ruin of Alex Richards’ first bar -- The Sloshed Pit, an enterprise that had featured alcohol and cage fighting -- served as a poignant backdrop to the meeting; a visual message to Sanchez that Bonnie Blue would not be intimidated, harassed, or bought.
Funny, how much could change in just a couple of years. All her most dangerous enemies had become friends and allies, and now, what was left? There were no more metaphorical dragons to slay; neither heroes nor monsters remained. Gold, and the pursuit thereof, no longer a daunting challenge, but a dull drudgery. Let Singh and his crew of morons have their tin prizes; they weren't worth reclaiming from a pair of talentless nobodies and their toothless, aging attack dog.
Not one man on the entire WCF roster could stand against Bonnie Blue, alone and unaided. They lacked both the skill and the courage, and frankly, she was bored. Even the thought of seeking payback against Kiddy Namo for costing her the Tag Title match at Blast failed to elicit much more than a yawn from her psyche.
She still had Jackson Caine to deal with, a notion that irritated her. The weird little troll had caught her up in some bizarre fantasy; obsessed over her, stalked and harassed her -- then lost his mind when she rejected his clumsy advances. But Stephen Singh had been right about one thing: Bonnie Blue had enabled Caine in the first place. She'd created the monster, and it was her responsibility to destroy it.
What better place than a literal pit in the middle of Death Valley? What more fitting an event than Corey Black’s exclusive XIII?
And what circumstance more appropriate than a no-disqualification match?
Her mind conjured images of blood-spattered sand, Caine kneeling at her feet as she prepared to deliver the coup de grace. A sadistic grin slithered across ruby-tinted lips, tongue tracing white teeth, as Bonnie Blue thought ahead to tomorrow night's match. She would take her time with him, would push him to the very limits of his tolerance -- and past. No disqualification meant she could level all the brutality a Time Witch could muster. Caine had no idea what kind of fury he had awoken with his mania-fueled harassment and constant badgering. Perhaps there was yet some diversion, at least for as long as it took to finally put paid to Jackson Caine’s debt -- and she would make damn sure he paid it in full.
A chirp from her phone startled her from her musing. Brow furrowed, she checked the message, sea-blue eyes widening in surprise. Quickly, she set the phone back down and rose from the bed, gathering her discarded clothes and pulling them on in haste. Bonnie stopped just long enough to scrawl another note on hotel stationery, altogether briefer than the previous one, and left it on the nightstand for David to find when he woke. Leaning in, she kissed him lightly, then vanished out the door.
Half an hour’s drive found the former tag champion sitting at a corner booth in noisy, haze-filled bar on the edge of the desert, impatiently waiting on a contact. According to R-7 -- a highly advanced, alien artificial intelligence installed to the Guardians’ supercomputer in the wake of the Dethwar -- a distress call had been broadcast using a slightly outdated Guardians emergency code; and that the signal had originated somewhere in near-Earth orbit. The coordinates sent alongside the message had brought her to this place, but so far --
The door swung open, and Bonnie Blue’s breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. Tall and slender, chin lifted in a haughty tilt despite the ragged coverall he wore, stood none other than Nikola Tesla. Surprise gave way to a sudden burst of anger that propelled her out of her seat and halfway across the crowded room. He had absconded with Jay Omega months ago, leaving her and the Guardians to face the looming threat of a secret organization dedicated to their destruction -- and the resulting slow corruption of Andre Holmes -- at the most critical juncture. Fists clenched at her sides as they came face-to-face, and she saw at last the drawn, haggard expression, where once he had been so proud. Better sense prevailed. She took him by the elbow and guided him back to the table, signaling to the bartender as they passed.
“Ok,” Bonnie began, “What the fuck, Nikola?”
His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, as though expecting some vague threat to materialize without warning.
“He's not who you thought he was,” said the scientist, leaning in close. “I should have known better, but he promised -- well, nevermind that, I --"
Tesla cut himself off as a waitress slipped through the crowd to deliver their drinks. With a nod of acknowledgement, Nikola picked up the glass and drained a third of it before setting it back on the thick paper coaster in front of him.
“Who’s not what, now? Omeg--"
He stopped her with a sharp gesture, nodding slightly.
“You never know who’s listening,” he explained in a paranoid whisper. “We were all fools. Should have known there's nothing wholesome about a man with his own island and a standing army… that he wasn't bankrolling the Guardians for any altruistic reason. We were just laundering dirty money.”
“No wonder he was so upset when we upgraded the AI. He must've known R-7 would catch on.”
“Indubitably. Nevertheless, it does get worse.”
“Worse? Motherfucker took off the instant shit gets a little hot -- runs off to play Han Solo with some space tramp, no less -- and now you're telling me the Guardians have been patsies in a money laundering scheme. How in the name of Jam Willy Jesus does it get worse?”
Tesla pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. He couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eye.
“Weapons,” he said. “That's what he had me doing on his stolen spaceship. All that shiny new lab equipment came with a price, you know. At first, I had -- naively -- assumed that his enthusiasm for scientific pursuit matched my own. His requests for tech had begun innocently enough; my time with the Guardians had been quite instructive, and of course I realized there was a necessity for advances in weaponry to aid a noble cause.
But the other side kept pace too rapidly. I grew suspicious, so I planted a small tracker on him. Imagine my utter shock to discover him meeting in secret with the leader of the opposition -- quite intimately, I might add.”
“Hold up. He was playing both them bitches?”
Affirmation in Tesla’s nod.
“And profiting off the whole affair by selling his weapons -- my weapons -- to either side, thus perpetuating an unwinnable war. Also, that story he told you about Grimmauld and his noble self-sacrifice was a complete fairy tale. He sent that dragon right into the heart of a neutron star, poor bastard.”
“Fucking shit. I hope Jared murders that asshole.”
“No more than I do,” Tesla told her, knocking back the rest of his drink. “For now, however, I've a request. My escape is only temporary, and there is much work to be done if I'm going to stop this. I need you to take me somewhere I can't be found.”
Bonnie shot him a grin over the rim of her glass.
“I know the perfect place.”