Post by Bonnie Blue on Sept 29, 2018 12:23:33 GMT -5
Moonglow shimmer on the water's surface, cast down from star-strewn heavens through angled windows, broken into a thousand glittering shards as the lithe figure of Bonnie Blue slipped into the swimming pool. A little after ten on a weeknight meant she had the place to herself, aside from the silhouette of a lonely businessman working out on an elliptical machine in the fitness center above. Long, sure strokes carried her from one end to the other, and back again; lap after lap in a repetition that eased the tumult in her mind. Far below, the young goddess could sense the pull of ocean tides in the harbor, heard the siren song of the sea. Part of her longed to heed the call, to let the ocean current carry her away and beneath the waves, all the way down to the Coral Throne of the Deep. But those days were over. Wade was gone, perhaps in pursuit of some new love, #beachkrew all but a fading memory, and Bonnie alone remained -- last but not least of their number.
She called to mind those early days of Rebellution, aligned with Andre Holmes, DeMarcus Jordan, and Grayson Pierce -- who would later be known as Gemini Battle. They had been flawed, each of them, and success fleeting. Only a brief Tag Title reign stood testament to the fact that they'd even existed. And when Grayson Pierce had suffered a debilitating injury at the hands of an old rival, like sharks sensing blood in the water, #beachkrew had moved in for the kill. In the end, the failure had ultimately been Bonnie’s: she'd doomed the stable when she'd chosen to stand up to Jared Holmes, John Rabid, Kyle Kemp, and Wade Moor. Her actions had cost DeMarcus Jordan his wrestling career, and she'd had to make her peace with that. Even so, the Time Witch didn't regret the choices she'd made. Her methods suffered from lack of experience and a grave underestimation of her enemies -- not a mistake she would repeat this time -- but Rebellution had stood for the right things. For honor in the ring, for civility and for justice. But over time, the meaning of those concepts tended to change. Honor only applies when you're facing an opponent who is honorable, and justice, more often than not, is merely another word for revenge.
After all was said and done, Bonnie reflected, she'd learned more from -- and become closer to -- her former rivals than those she'd once considered friends. It hadn't been Holmes or Rabid abandoning her, nor Wade Moor who'd sold out the Guardians to a shadow fraternity intent on destroying them. In quiet, philosophical moments, it seemed as though 1he wav3 had been less a punishment by exile, and more an exercise in learning -- and the Time Witch found herself wondering if that had been by design. She couldn't deny that she had grown in skill, mellowed in temperament. Success had stalked her in that other universe, making her a near-instant celebrity with mainstream appeal. Endorsement deals and minor television roles had followed the first of her many title reigns, and it hadn't stopped, not even when War came to her doorstep and merged the timelines together again.
Bonnie Blue was born -- and reborn -- in war; forged of iron, quenched in blood. This time would be no different.
Her swim was interrupted by the heavy tread of approaching footsteps. She looked up to find R-Seven unfolding a towel.
“Pardon the intrusion, Bonnie,” he said as she reluctantly emerged from the water. “I'm receiving a distress call on the private Guardians frequency. There's a disturbance downtown.”
The young goddess took the length of thick, white Egyptian cotton and patted moisture from her skin.
“What kinda disturbance?” Bonnie asked, wrapping the towel around her slender torso. “Bank robbery? Jewelry heist? Please let it be anything but goat fucking pimp clowns again.”
“Bikers,” Seven told her, following her across the wide expanse of floor. “Rioting in the streets in front of Old City Hall. They seem immune to tear gas, are keeping the police at bay.”
“Guess I'mma have to reschedule that hot stone massage.”
“Already done -- tomorrow at sundown,” the android replied, sounding just a little smug.
Bonnie's pace quickened as her thoughts turned from introspection to tactical planning.
“How many bikers?”
“Toronto P.D. reports seven -- all women, apparently.”
The young goddess’ brow furrowed. That didn't seem like nearly enough people to stand off armed law enforcement officers, not without heavy artillery -- or superpowers.
“Hostages?” she asked, stepping into the elevator.
“Negative.”
“Weapons?”
“Spears and shields. One might have a battle axe.”
“They're holding off the cops with medieval weapons?”
Seven shot the Time Witch a look of mild vexation as he pressed the button for their floor.
“Obviously not. According to the police, they're using magic of some kind. And super strength. Category Nine, by the sound of it.”
“Energy weapons, then,” Bonnie concluded. “Maybe strength enhancement devices -- there are a few floating around on the black market. Most are duds. The ones that work tend to be unstable.”
“And a forcefield,” Seven added.
“Well, sure. Ain't a party without a forcefield.”
They slipped past a couple waiting on the lift and hurried to the suite. As soon as the door closed, Bonnie cast the damp towel aside and stripped off the soaked turquoise one-piece. She didn't care if the android saw her nude; it wouldn't be the first time, and it wasn't as if he were remotely interested, or even could be. It ran contrary to his programming. Without wasting any time, she pulled on a catsuit of what appeared to be shiny black vinyl -- but was a prototype tactical polymer developed by Nikola Tesla to resist heat and electrical discharge. Originally intended for laboratory use, Bonnie had found the material stuffed in the bottom of an old steamer trunk following the scientist’s abrupt departure, and put it to her own use. Coupled with well-worn Doc Martens, the Time Witch cut a striking figure that usually served to deter most of the criminal elements she and Alex Richards ran across in their extracurricular duties.
“You wanna hit up my partner and let him know what's going down?” she asked the android.
“He's already on his way downtown,” Seven told her, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “You'll be teleporting, I take it?”
“How'd ya guess?”
Bonnie shot Seven a wink, left hand paused mid-gesture. With a flick of her wrist, a silvery ellipse formed before her; elongated and widened into a window on the street in front of an imposing stone and brick edifice of Romanesque architecture, with arched doorways, turrets, and a clock tower looming above it all. Seven women in leather and chainmail roared up and down the road in mock-jousts while helpless police looked on in bewilderment.
Here we are again: Bonnie Blue and Odin Balfore. Mistress of Time and the God of War. Only this time around it ain't a shot at a potential shot at some nebulous future date for that belt -- but a real goddamn chance to take the Dub-See-Eff World Championship for my very own.
Part of me regrets that it's gotta be you taking the fall so I can rise, Odin. I done already said how much respect I got for you as a competitor, despite the fact that you see me as something less than an equal; despite the fact that you look at me and see only some vulgar characterization, a plaything, nothing but a disposable piece of ass, interchangeable with a hundred other blonde bimbos you've used and cast aside when you were done. It's vile, Odin. Worse, that your boi Ol’ Z has -- or had, I'm not sure anymore -- more heart than you, held me in higher esteem than you do. The Coked-Up Madman, the guy without a single fuck to give, saw and accepted me for what I was. I mean, ok, he was involved with my clone-sister Ruby at the time, and something about her stirred that undead heart into pumping again, eased his endless torment. The Zombie who loved, a perfect counterpoint to the cold and distant god-man.
And ya want us all to believe you're on some noble quest to save the Dub-See-Eff from the encroaching mediocrity that infects it -- without realizing that part of the very same problem is you, Odin Balfore.
Yours, once a name that struck terror into the hearts of the just and the wicked alike; now, even a fool like James Wolf dares to ridicule you. Did you see his garbage fire of a promo? Basically said you hit like his sister-wife, while fondling his own junk. It was gross. I'd spare you the trauma of actually watching the whole thing, otherwise you'll have to dig both eyes out -- and what good is a blind god to anyone? But yeah, the same guy who is so weak, he threatens to sue people for making accurate observations about his character feels confident in openly stating that the Big, Bad All-Daddy ain't even a man. He believes survival is the same as winning.
Now, all that aside, it would seem like you're losing your touch. Was a time a douchebag like Stephen Singh wouldn't have stood a chance against you in that ring; no matter what shenanigans he tried to pull, Odin Balfore woulda been a step ahead. And yet, somehow, not only did Singh get the better of you -- he used Adam Young to do it.
That's gotta be humiliating for anybody -- but for the Se7en God? It's worse than letting Noble Savage catch you with her cheap-ass tactics; tactics, by the way, that any rookie woulda seen coming from miles away.
Still… Adam Young. Not a lot of people can claim a loss to that guy, ‘specially not with the World Title at stake, so, um, that's kind of a distinction? Not the good kind, but at your age, I reckon ya take what ya can get.
Then, y'know, I thought -- we all thought -- you was finally getting your shit back together when you outlasted a bunch of chumps to finally pin the only other competitor worth mentioning, Roy Speede, in the inaugural Alternate Showdown match. Earned y’self yet another shot at the big shiny, to the surprise of literally nobody. And a week later, damn near blew your credibility; not in dropping that Judge guy in a matter of seconds, but when you called out Mikey X -- then got your ass handed to ya. I mean, I just rewatched the footage, and it was so bad I had to cringe. I was actually embarrassed for you.
Again, not quite as embarrassed as when you got pinned by Adam Young, or almost got your leg broke by Brandi “Ignore the Broomstick and Pointy Hat; I'm NOT a Witch!” Noble -- but still. Ouch.
Guess that got you all fired up for the next week, when you teamed with Navarro to impressively beat the shit outta poor, sweet Teo, while his unwilling partner Dynamo watched from the sidelines and ran away when it was his turn. Y'all both gotta be so proud of such a hard-won victory. Ell-oh-ell!
So, basically, once you had that guaranteed title shot for Revenge, it's like ya didn't even give a damn. Halfassed your way through match after match, allowed a mentally deficient schizo to get the better of you, then pulled your massive cranium outta your rectum just long enough to put on an exemplary match against Michael X at Revenge and eventually divest him of the World Championship he worked so hard for.
It's a pattern with you, All-Daddy. Unless there's a title on the line, it's like you could give a shit less how you perform in that ring. Alex had a damn good point -- you are lazy as fuck. While I'm out here busting my ass, splitting them midcard cheeks every damn week, trying to earn what shoulda already been mine; you just flop your way from one match to the next. You ain't consistent unless we talking that Dub-See-Eff gold, cause that is the only damn thing that motivates you.
At least it means that this time, I'm getting your best -- or at least an approximation of it, since you don't view me as nearly the same kinda threat as ol’ Mikey. Yeah? Well, fuck you, Odin Balfore! Just like poor Mikey, I been scratching and clawing my way to the top; proving myself repeatedly, while you just sit on your ass and wait for things to come to you. Because unlike the rest of us, you know Corey Black always got your back; always got an extra title shot to hand ya. And all you ever had to do was make it look like you earned it.
Ain't that the way it was s'posed to go last time you and me faced off? Black figured he'd shut me up once and for all, putting me in the ring with you. And when I lost my chance to be in Ultimate Showdown, I'd quit asking. You'd go on to take the belt that night, and if ya girl was real lucky, I'd have ended the night with that shot at Revenge -- but probably not, cause we all know these clusterfuck matches are my kryptonite. That woulda been the end of my World Title dreams.
But shit didn't quite go down that way. I bested you, for the first time ever. Made you tap out to a move that ain't even a finisher. I took what shoulda been your spot in Ultimate Showdown and delayed your title aspirations for another month. So yeah, go ahead and point out how I still ended up getting eliminated first. How I coulda seized the opportunity then, and had that World Title for a whole month all to myself. Or how I coulda wound up being a two-time Horrorkore Champ. Or got stuck with that myopic fool Dynamo for a tag partner. Or even been saddled with the responsibility for the Television Title, defending it week after week, to burn out all the more quickly. Given those options, I'd say things worked out more or less in my favor -- ‘cause right up until last week, I was undefeated after Showdown. Two whole months and not once did I eat a pin -- while you, Odin, allowed yourself to be distracted not once, but twice by Stephen Singh. He cost you a guaranteed victory over the Behemoth, and cost the fans what should've been an epic match between you and Alex Richards.
For a veteran of your status, that is just some bad damn judgment. Maybe you're getting tired of all this. The fame, the notoriety -- the expectations. It's a lot, even for shoulders as broad as yours. And I oughta know. I carried United Championship Infinite on my back for a year and a half, from the moment it opened its doors, right up its dying day; when Spencer Adams, in a fit of jealousy at seeing so many wrestlers achieve the success that eluded him here, sold the company to a scumbag promoter by the name of Vincent Pryde. It's a heavy load to bear, and the Dub all the more so because of its seventeen-year history. That's a lot to live up to, and you've done an admirable job -- but now it's time for somebody else to step into the spotlight, to shoulder the burden; and that somebody is Bonnie Blue.
Everything came to a standstill with a flash of silvery-blue. The Time Witch stepped through the portal and onto Queen Street. Two Harleys caught in mid-charge veered sharply to either side of her; one overturned and skidded to a halt mere inches from a fire hydrant. Voices raised in fevered exhilaration died on the brisk night air at the arrival of Bonnie Blue.
As one, the seven women moved to encircle her, shields and weapons at the ready. Each was tall, easily half again Bonnie's height, with the bulk and muscular definition common to those given to fighting. Long, flaxen hair arranged in intricate braids, bound with leather and decorated with carved bone beads and tufts of fur; stern faces, as if graven in stone. They wore identical black leather motorcycle jackets, studded with spikes and segments of woven chain mesh, the word “Valkyries” emblazoned across the back in lettering reminiscent of Nordic runes. All but one carried a long spear, shafts like young saplings, and tipped with a point nearly as big as the young goddess’ hand. The last wielded an axe that stood almost Bonnie's own height, and she alone kept her round buckler strapped across her back like the shell of an enormous turtle.
Bonnie eyed them, wary, as one of the Valkyries -- evidently the leader, judging by the wolf pelt slung over one shoulder, and the way she carried herself -- stepped from the formation to loom over her.
“Time Witch,” she intoned, as if pronouncing sentience. “Your day is done. You met Death on the field of battle, with dignity and honor -- you belong now to Valhalla!”
The young goddess lifted one eyebrow, skeptical. Her lips quirked in a half smile.
“Did Odin put y'all up to this? Trying to keep ya girl from even showing up for that World Title match?”
“We make our own choices!” the Valkyrie shot back, indignant.
“Yeah, well so do I,” Bonnie told her. “And as y'all can see, I am quite lively. Y’ain’t taking my ass nowhere, ‘specially not to sit at the feet of the All-Daddy!”
“You will come with us and you will serve -- “
A swift, sudden uppercut drove breath from the Valkyrie’s lungs and the words from her mouth.
“Bonnie Blue don't serve nobody! This Hardcore Queen makes her own damn rules, ya dig? And I damn sure ain't about to submit myself to somebody couldn't even be bothered to show up for the Dethwar!”
At the leader’s signal, the other six closed in, rushing at Bonnie, shields before them like battering rams. The young goddess braced against the first to reach her, using the edge of the oversized buckler to launch herself over the woman’s back in a graceful arc: and came to a landing in a low crouch behind as sic shields crashed with a resounding clang.
“Yeah, where was y'all’s Big, Bad God of War when all that shit went down? Huh? Where was the All Father when Creeping Death unleashed his own brand of Hell on Earth? Where was the Se7en God when the rest of us was fighting -- dying -- to save this world?”
Before the maddened Valkyries could regroup, the Time Witch rushed them, targeting one with a knee lift. There was a dull thud as she connected with a thick skull. The dazed woman staggered drunkenly, and Bonnie finished her off with a superkick. Hastily, she seized the shield as it fell from nerveless fingers, wound up, and flung it like a discus, catching a second Valkyrie unaware. It struck her across the throat as Bonnie ducked a swing from the butt of a spear.
“Because it sure as fuck wasn't in Denmark, fighting alongside us. He didn't give two shits about his bestest friend, Corey Black, imprisoned in the Necrosphere with nobody but Crow McMorris for company.”
Another spear strike caught the young goddess across the lower back and sent her stumbling to her knees. The Valkyrie pressed her advantage, using her shield as a weapon; Bonnie rolled onto her back and thrust both legs up, driving the metal into the Valkyrie’s face with a sickening crunch and a gush of blood that indicated a busted nose. Leaping to her feet again, Bonnie followed up with a forearm smash that left her opponent on the ground. With three down, the remaining Valkyries backed off. It was time to change tactics.
“He coulda stopped it sooner. Saved everyone and took all the damn credit. Prevented the events that led to me becoming…”
She trailed off, as the axe-maiden moved to confront her. A heavy overhand blow missed wide and cracked open the pavement instead of Bonnie's skull. The Valkyrie tried again -- and again, missed, as the Time Witch sprung lightly out of range. A wicked grin crossed the big woman's face. She thumbed a hidden catch in the weapon’s shaft, lifted it high, and cast like a fisherman. The axe head flew forward, trailing a heavy chain, and only quick thinking saved the young goddess from being squashed as she brought up a discarded shield in defense. Even so, the massive axe head left a sizeable dent in the metal.
“But nah. When it comes to real, literal, actual war -- he likes to stay home and hope it goes away. Come running back, long after the danger has passed; at John Rabid’s beck and call, all cause he promised Odin a shot at the big shiny. He didn't give a damn about him or this company or a single one of us -- not until he was promised gold. While the Time Witch and the Serpent commanded the armies of men, the All-Daddy watched from on high, and went ‘meh.’”
Bonnie realized that keeping her distance would only wear her out and delay the inevitable. So she did the only thing that made sense: snatching up a giant spear, she threw the shield down to the street, took a running start, and leapt onto it. Her momentum sent it skidding forward, picking up speed as she shifted her grip on the spear. Holding it before her like a lance, the Time Witch took aim, and just as the Valkyrie prepared for another strike, drove the point deep into the big woman's shoulder. The axe clunked to the ground as Bonnie slid past, then dropped her weight on one edge, bringing the shield to a halt.
“The God of War, avoiding the greatest of all wars -- only to turn around months later and loose his own lesser version of Dethwar on the Dub. All just to get his hands on that World Championship.”
Bonnie turned to face the last three Valkyries, a disdainful sneer on her lips, teeth bared to reveal pointed fangs, and a low growl in her throat.
“Yeah, I died in Denmark that night. Then I was saved, no thanks to Se7en God. And y'all dare challenge me? Fuck that! Y'all go back to Valhalla, and you tell the All Father this: I ain't just coming for that gold, Odin Balfore -- I'm coming for blood!”
The Valkyries didn't wait to be told a second time; they'd suffered humiliation enough for one night. Quickly, they gathered their injured sisters, climbed back on their bikes, and sped down the road. At their departure, the forcefield fell, freeing the police to move in, for all the good it would do. Unseen, Alex Richards approached to stand by her side.
“What'd I miss?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” Bonnie told him, with a wink and a grin.
“Yeah,” he agreed,”kinda looked like you had it handled.”
“And that's just a preview how it's gonna go down at War.”
“Damn right,” said the Archduke. “You'll win that World Title. I'll win the War rumble. And then at One -- “
“Guardians gonna tear it up,” Bonnie finished for him. “We about to show the whole Dubya-See-Eff what a real main event looks like.”
She called to mind those early days of Rebellution, aligned with Andre Holmes, DeMarcus Jordan, and Grayson Pierce -- who would later be known as Gemini Battle. They had been flawed, each of them, and success fleeting. Only a brief Tag Title reign stood testament to the fact that they'd even existed. And when Grayson Pierce had suffered a debilitating injury at the hands of an old rival, like sharks sensing blood in the water, #beachkrew had moved in for the kill. In the end, the failure had ultimately been Bonnie’s: she'd doomed the stable when she'd chosen to stand up to Jared Holmes, John Rabid, Kyle Kemp, and Wade Moor. Her actions had cost DeMarcus Jordan his wrestling career, and she'd had to make her peace with that. Even so, the Time Witch didn't regret the choices she'd made. Her methods suffered from lack of experience and a grave underestimation of her enemies -- not a mistake she would repeat this time -- but Rebellution had stood for the right things. For honor in the ring, for civility and for justice. But over time, the meaning of those concepts tended to change. Honor only applies when you're facing an opponent who is honorable, and justice, more often than not, is merely another word for revenge.
After all was said and done, Bonnie reflected, she'd learned more from -- and become closer to -- her former rivals than those she'd once considered friends. It hadn't been Holmes or Rabid abandoning her, nor Wade Moor who'd sold out the Guardians to a shadow fraternity intent on destroying them. In quiet, philosophical moments, it seemed as though 1he wav3 had been less a punishment by exile, and more an exercise in learning -- and the Time Witch found herself wondering if that had been by design. She couldn't deny that she had grown in skill, mellowed in temperament. Success had stalked her in that other universe, making her a near-instant celebrity with mainstream appeal. Endorsement deals and minor television roles had followed the first of her many title reigns, and it hadn't stopped, not even when War came to her doorstep and merged the timelines together again.
Bonnie Blue was born -- and reborn -- in war; forged of iron, quenched in blood. This time would be no different.
Her swim was interrupted by the heavy tread of approaching footsteps. She looked up to find R-Seven unfolding a towel.
“Pardon the intrusion, Bonnie,” he said as she reluctantly emerged from the water. “I'm receiving a distress call on the private Guardians frequency. There's a disturbance downtown.”
The young goddess took the length of thick, white Egyptian cotton and patted moisture from her skin.
“What kinda disturbance?” Bonnie asked, wrapping the towel around her slender torso. “Bank robbery? Jewelry heist? Please let it be anything but goat fucking pimp clowns again.”
“Bikers,” Seven told her, following her across the wide expanse of floor. “Rioting in the streets in front of Old City Hall. They seem immune to tear gas, are keeping the police at bay.”
“Guess I'mma have to reschedule that hot stone massage.”
“Already done -- tomorrow at sundown,” the android replied, sounding just a little smug.
Bonnie's pace quickened as her thoughts turned from introspection to tactical planning.
“How many bikers?”
“Toronto P.D. reports seven -- all women, apparently.”
The young goddess’ brow furrowed. That didn't seem like nearly enough people to stand off armed law enforcement officers, not without heavy artillery -- or superpowers.
“Hostages?” she asked, stepping into the elevator.
“Negative.”
“Weapons?”
“Spears and shields. One might have a battle axe.”
“They're holding off the cops with medieval weapons?”
Seven shot the Time Witch a look of mild vexation as he pressed the button for their floor.
“Obviously not. According to the police, they're using magic of some kind. And super strength. Category Nine, by the sound of it.”
“Energy weapons, then,” Bonnie concluded. “Maybe strength enhancement devices -- there are a few floating around on the black market. Most are duds. The ones that work tend to be unstable.”
“And a forcefield,” Seven added.
“Well, sure. Ain't a party without a forcefield.”
They slipped past a couple waiting on the lift and hurried to the suite. As soon as the door closed, Bonnie cast the damp towel aside and stripped off the soaked turquoise one-piece. She didn't care if the android saw her nude; it wouldn't be the first time, and it wasn't as if he were remotely interested, or even could be. It ran contrary to his programming. Without wasting any time, she pulled on a catsuit of what appeared to be shiny black vinyl -- but was a prototype tactical polymer developed by Nikola Tesla to resist heat and electrical discharge. Originally intended for laboratory use, Bonnie had found the material stuffed in the bottom of an old steamer trunk following the scientist’s abrupt departure, and put it to her own use. Coupled with well-worn Doc Martens, the Time Witch cut a striking figure that usually served to deter most of the criminal elements she and Alex Richards ran across in their extracurricular duties.
“You wanna hit up my partner and let him know what's going down?” she asked the android.
“He's already on his way downtown,” Seven told her, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “You'll be teleporting, I take it?”
“How'd ya guess?”
Bonnie shot Seven a wink, left hand paused mid-gesture. With a flick of her wrist, a silvery ellipse formed before her; elongated and widened into a window on the street in front of an imposing stone and brick edifice of Romanesque architecture, with arched doorways, turrets, and a clock tower looming above it all. Seven women in leather and chainmail roared up and down the road in mock-jousts while helpless police looked on in bewilderment.
*********************************************
Here we are again: Bonnie Blue and Odin Balfore. Mistress of Time and the God of War. Only this time around it ain't a shot at a potential shot at some nebulous future date for that belt -- but a real goddamn chance to take the Dub-See-Eff World Championship for my very own.
Part of me regrets that it's gotta be you taking the fall so I can rise, Odin. I done already said how much respect I got for you as a competitor, despite the fact that you see me as something less than an equal; despite the fact that you look at me and see only some vulgar characterization, a plaything, nothing but a disposable piece of ass, interchangeable with a hundred other blonde bimbos you've used and cast aside when you were done. It's vile, Odin. Worse, that your boi Ol’ Z has -- or had, I'm not sure anymore -- more heart than you, held me in higher esteem than you do. The Coked-Up Madman, the guy without a single fuck to give, saw and accepted me for what I was. I mean, ok, he was involved with my clone-sister Ruby at the time, and something about her stirred that undead heart into pumping again, eased his endless torment. The Zombie who loved, a perfect counterpoint to the cold and distant god-man.
And ya want us all to believe you're on some noble quest to save the Dub-See-Eff from the encroaching mediocrity that infects it -- without realizing that part of the very same problem is you, Odin Balfore.
Yours, once a name that struck terror into the hearts of the just and the wicked alike; now, even a fool like James Wolf dares to ridicule you. Did you see his garbage fire of a promo? Basically said you hit like his sister-wife, while fondling his own junk. It was gross. I'd spare you the trauma of actually watching the whole thing, otherwise you'll have to dig both eyes out -- and what good is a blind god to anyone? But yeah, the same guy who is so weak, he threatens to sue people for making accurate observations about his character feels confident in openly stating that the Big, Bad All-Daddy ain't even a man. He believes survival is the same as winning.
Now, all that aside, it would seem like you're losing your touch. Was a time a douchebag like Stephen Singh wouldn't have stood a chance against you in that ring; no matter what shenanigans he tried to pull, Odin Balfore woulda been a step ahead. And yet, somehow, not only did Singh get the better of you -- he used Adam Young to do it.
That's gotta be humiliating for anybody -- but for the Se7en God? It's worse than letting Noble Savage catch you with her cheap-ass tactics; tactics, by the way, that any rookie woulda seen coming from miles away.
Still… Adam Young. Not a lot of people can claim a loss to that guy, ‘specially not with the World Title at stake, so, um, that's kind of a distinction? Not the good kind, but at your age, I reckon ya take what ya can get.
Then, y'know, I thought -- we all thought -- you was finally getting your shit back together when you outlasted a bunch of chumps to finally pin the only other competitor worth mentioning, Roy Speede, in the inaugural Alternate Showdown match. Earned y’self yet another shot at the big shiny, to the surprise of literally nobody. And a week later, damn near blew your credibility; not in dropping that Judge guy in a matter of seconds, but when you called out Mikey X -- then got your ass handed to ya. I mean, I just rewatched the footage, and it was so bad I had to cringe. I was actually embarrassed for you.
Again, not quite as embarrassed as when you got pinned by Adam Young, or almost got your leg broke by Brandi “Ignore the Broomstick and Pointy Hat; I'm NOT a Witch!” Noble -- but still. Ouch.
Guess that got you all fired up for the next week, when you teamed with Navarro to impressively beat the shit outta poor, sweet Teo, while his unwilling partner Dynamo watched from the sidelines and ran away when it was his turn. Y'all both gotta be so proud of such a hard-won victory. Ell-oh-ell!
So, basically, once you had that guaranteed title shot for Revenge, it's like ya didn't even give a damn. Halfassed your way through match after match, allowed a mentally deficient schizo to get the better of you, then pulled your massive cranium outta your rectum just long enough to put on an exemplary match against Michael X at Revenge and eventually divest him of the World Championship he worked so hard for.
It's a pattern with you, All-Daddy. Unless there's a title on the line, it's like you could give a shit less how you perform in that ring. Alex had a damn good point -- you are lazy as fuck. While I'm out here busting my ass, splitting them midcard cheeks every damn week, trying to earn what shoulda already been mine; you just flop your way from one match to the next. You ain't consistent unless we talking that Dub-See-Eff gold, cause that is the only damn thing that motivates you.
At least it means that this time, I'm getting your best -- or at least an approximation of it, since you don't view me as nearly the same kinda threat as ol’ Mikey. Yeah? Well, fuck you, Odin Balfore! Just like poor Mikey, I been scratching and clawing my way to the top; proving myself repeatedly, while you just sit on your ass and wait for things to come to you. Because unlike the rest of us, you know Corey Black always got your back; always got an extra title shot to hand ya. And all you ever had to do was make it look like you earned it.
Ain't that the way it was s'posed to go last time you and me faced off? Black figured he'd shut me up once and for all, putting me in the ring with you. And when I lost my chance to be in Ultimate Showdown, I'd quit asking. You'd go on to take the belt that night, and if ya girl was real lucky, I'd have ended the night with that shot at Revenge -- but probably not, cause we all know these clusterfuck matches are my kryptonite. That woulda been the end of my World Title dreams.
But shit didn't quite go down that way. I bested you, for the first time ever. Made you tap out to a move that ain't even a finisher. I took what shoulda been your spot in Ultimate Showdown and delayed your title aspirations for another month. So yeah, go ahead and point out how I still ended up getting eliminated first. How I coulda seized the opportunity then, and had that World Title for a whole month all to myself. Or how I coulda wound up being a two-time Horrorkore Champ. Or got stuck with that myopic fool Dynamo for a tag partner. Or even been saddled with the responsibility for the Television Title, defending it week after week, to burn out all the more quickly. Given those options, I'd say things worked out more or less in my favor -- ‘cause right up until last week, I was undefeated after Showdown. Two whole months and not once did I eat a pin -- while you, Odin, allowed yourself to be distracted not once, but twice by Stephen Singh. He cost you a guaranteed victory over the Behemoth, and cost the fans what should've been an epic match between you and Alex Richards.
For a veteran of your status, that is just some bad damn judgment. Maybe you're getting tired of all this. The fame, the notoriety -- the expectations. It's a lot, even for shoulders as broad as yours. And I oughta know. I carried United Championship Infinite on my back for a year and a half, from the moment it opened its doors, right up its dying day; when Spencer Adams, in a fit of jealousy at seeing so many wrestlers achieve the success that eluded him here, sold the company to a scumbag promoter by the name of Vincent Pryde. It's a heavy load to bear, and the Dub all the more so because of its seventeen-year history. That's a lot to live up to, and you've done an admirable job -- but now it's time for somebody else to step into the spotlight, to shoulder the burden; and that somebody is Bonnie Blue.
*********************************************
Everything came to a standstill with a flash of silvery-blue. The Time Witch stepped through the portal and onto Queen Street. Two Harleys caught in mid-charge veered sharply to either side of her; one overturned and skidded to a halt mere inches from a fire hydrant. Voices raised in fevered exhilaration died on the brisk night air at the arrival of Bonnie Blue.
As one, the seven women moved to encircle her, shields and weapons at the ready. Each was tall, easily half again Bonnie's height, with the bulk and muscular definition common to those given to fighting. Long, flaxen hair arranged in intricate braids, bound with leather and decorated with carved bone beads and tufts of fur; stern faces, as if graven in stone. They wore identical black leather motorcycle jackets, studded with spikes and segments of woven chain mesh, the word “Valkyries” emblazoned across the back in lettering reminiscent of Nordic runes. All but one carried a long spear, shafts like young saplings, and tipped with a point nearly as big as the young goddess’ hand. The last wielded an axe that stood almost Bonnie's own height, and she alone kept her round buckler strapped across her back like the shell of an enormous turtle.
Bonnie eyed them, wary, as one of the Valkyries -- evidently the leader, judging by the wolf pelt slung over one shoulder, and the way she carried herself -- stepped from the formation to loom over her.
“Time Witch,” she intoned, as if pronouncing sentience. “Your day is done. You met Death on the field of battle, with dignity and honor -- you belong now to Valhalla!”
The young goddess lifted one eyebrow, skeptical. Her lips quirked in a half smile.
“Did Odin put y'all up to this? Trying to keep ya girl from even showing up for that World Title match?”
“We make our own choices!” the Valkyrie shot back, indignant.
“Yeah, well so do I,” Bonnie told her. “And as y'all can see, I am quite lively. Y’ain’t taking my ass nowhere, ‘specially not to sit at the feet of the All-Daddy!”
“You will come with us and you will serve -- “
A swift, sudden uppercut drove breath from the Valkyrie’s lungs and the words from her mouth.
“Bonnie Blue don't serve nobody! This Hardcore Queen makes her own damn rules, ya dig? And I damn sure ain't about to submit myself to somebody couldn't even be bothered to show up for the Dethwar!”
At the leader’s signal, the other six closed in, rushing at Bonnie, shields before them like battering rams. The young goddess braced against the first to reach her, using the edge of the oversized buckler to launch herself over the woman’s back in a graceful arc: and came to a landing in a low crouch behind as sic shields crashed with a resounding clang.
“Yeah, where was y'all’s Big, Bad God of War when all that shit went down? Huh? Where was the All Father when Creeping Death unleashed his own brand of Hell on Earth? Where was the Se7en God when the rest of us was fighting -- dying -- to save this world?”
Before the maddened Valkyries could regroup, the Time Witch rushed them, targeting one with a knee lift. There was a dull thud as she connected with a thick skull. The dazed woman staggered drunkenly, and Bonnie finished her off with a superkick. Hastily, she seized the shield as it fell from nerveless fingers, wound up, and flung it like a discus, catching a second Valkyrie unaware. It struck her across the throat as Bonnie ducked a swing from the butt of a spear.
“Because it sure as fuck wasn't in Denmark, fighting alongside us. He didn't give two shits about his bestest friend, Corey Black, imprisoned in the Necrosphere with nobody but Crow McMorris for company.”
Another spear strike caught the young goddess across the lower back and sent her stumbling to her knees. The Valkyrie pressed her advantage, using her shield as a weapon; Bonnie rolled onto her back and thrust both legs up, driving the metal into the Valkyrie’s face with a sickening crunch and a gush of blood that indicated a busted nose. Leaping to her feet again, Bonnie followed up with a forearm smash that left her opponent on the ground. With three down, the remaining Valkyries backed off. It was time to change tactics.
“He coulda stopped it sooner. Saved everyone and took all the damn credit. Prevented the events that led to me becoming…”
She trailed off, as the axe-maiden moved to confront her. A heavy overhand blow missed wide and cracked open the pavement instead of Bonnie's skull. The Valkyrie tried again -- and again, missed, as the Time Witch sprung lightly out of range. A wicked grin crossed the big woman's face. She thumbed a hidden catch in the weapon’s shaft, lifted it high, and cast like a fisherman. The axe head flew forward, trailing a heavy chain, and only quick thinking saved the young goddess from being squashed as she brought up a discarded shield in defense. Even so, the massive axe head left a sizeable dent in the metal.
“But nah. When it comes to real, literal, actual war -- he likes to stay home and hope it goes away. Come running back, long after the danger has passed; at John Rabid’s beck and call, all cause he promised Odin a shot at the big shiny. He didn't give a damn about him or this company or a single one of us -- not until he was promised gold. While the Time Witch and the Serpent commanded the armies of men, the All-Daddy watched from on high, and went ‘meh.’”
Bonnie realized that keeping her distance would only wear her out and delay the inevitable. So she did the only thing that made sense: snatching up a giant spear, she threw the shield down to the street, took a running start, and leapt onto it. Her momentum sent it skidding forward, picking up speed as she shifted her grip on the spear. Holding it before her like a lance, the Time Witch took aim, and just as the Valkyrie prepared for another strike, drove the point deep into the big woman's shoulder. The axe clunked to the ground as Bonnie slid past, then dropped her weight on one edge, bringing the shield to a halt.
“The God of War, avoiding the greatest of all wars -- only to turn around months later and loose his own lesser version of Dethwar on the Dub. All just to get his hands on that World Championship.”
Bonnie turned to face the last three Valkyries, a disdainful sneer on her lips, teeth bared to reveal pointed fangs, and a low growl in her throat.
“Yeah, I died in Denmark that night. Then I was saved, no thanks to Se7en God. And y'all dare challenge me? Fuck that! Y'all go back to Valhalla, and you tell the All Father this: I ain't just coming for that gold, Odin Balfore -- I'm coming for blood!”
The Valkyries didn't wait to be told a second time; they'd suffered humiliation enough for one night. Quickly, they gathered their injured sisters, climbed back on their bikes, and sped down the road. At their departure, the forcefield fell, freeing the police to move in, for all the good it would do. Unseen, Alex Richards approached to stand by her side.
“What'd I miss?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” Bonnie told him, with a wink and a grin.
“Yeah,” he agreed,”kinda looked like you had it handled.”
“And that's just a preview how it's gonna go down at War.”
“Damn right,” said the Archduke. “You'll win that World Title. I'll win the War rumble. And then at One -- “
“Guardians gonna tear it up,” Bonnie finished for him. “We about to show the whole Dubya-See-Eff what a real main event looks like.”
