Post by Bonnie Blue on Nov 25, 2018 19:07:34 GMT -5
Prologue:
Backstage at Madison Square Garden, chaos reigned in the wake of Odin Balfore’s unprovoked assault on the Guardians. An enraged Alex Richards stormed through a pair of metal doors, shrugging off the latex-gloved hand of a WCF medic, as he followed behind a stretcher. Damian Kaine, neck immobilized in a brace, lay unconscious, wheeled out with rapid efficiency to a waiting ambulance. Noble Savage and Bonnie Blue watched him go without a word, trading only a nod of acknowledgement when he passed them by.
Bonnie held an ice pack to one side of her face, where a blossoming bruise had begun to spread. Finger marks on her throat were already fading from purplish-blue to a rosy pink. An involuntary hiss escaped her lips as expert hands nevertheless found a tender knot at the base of her skull. A penlight dazzled her eyes, and only rigid self control prevented her from slapping it away. Fury burned through her veins like a serpent’s venom, heightened as the door opened again; this time to admit a lanky, bespectacled figure in a WCF polo shirt and dark chino slacks.
Bonnie recognized him as one of Corey Black’s lackeys. At a gesture from the man, the medics hastened out. He shot Savage a dark glance, as if to indicate that she should follow; she glared back and leaned against a wall with exaggerated casualness.
“She stays,” said the Time Witch. “We ain't got no secrets from each other.”
The assistant’s expression soured briefly. He seemed to consider the situation for a moment, then shrugged in a noncommittal way. Reaching into his back pocket, the man withdrew a letter-size manila envelope, stuffed full to the point of straining the seams. The young goddess set down the ice pack, leaving only the faintest trace of a fast healing contusion, and reached out to take it. She tucked the envelope away without bothering to check the contents.
“Management appreciates your discretion, Miss Blue.”
He intoned the words as if by rote, to be carefully memorized, then dismissed. As the lackey turned to walk away, he found his path suddenly blocked. Viper-quick, Bonnie Blue had intercepted him. Her hand shot out to seize the front of his shirt in an iron grip. Sea-blue eyes fixed him with a peculiar gaze, and baby-pink lips curled in a sneer.
“You tell Mr. Black something for me: next time you're feeling the need to appease some whiny crybaby, you put his inarticulate ass in the ring with one of the company jobbers. That's what y'all pay them for. And from now on, my price for throwing a match is double. Ya dig?”
Wide-eyed and agog with terror, the man gave a hasty nod. A satisfied smile settled on Bonnie's lips as she released him, taking a moment to smooth out the rumpled polo shirt.
“Good. Now, go!”
Not waiting to be told a second time, Black's assistant scurried through the door and back the way he'd come.
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Part One: Breaking Bad
Part One: Breaking Bad
Idyllic, peaceful, and already clad in evergreen and holly for the Christmas season, Bangor, Maine was a glittering jewel of the Eastern seaboard. At least in the well-to-do neighborhoods; the Americana-kitsch of scenic downtown, the grand spectacle of late-century gothic homes, or the quaint charm of the beachfront boardwalk, where summer tourists flocked by the thousands.
This part of town, however, was nothing like the pretty face Bangor showed the public. This was the black eye beneath the makeup, the tear-streaked mascara, the open-handed slap across the face that everyone knew about, but no one mentioned. It was the unshorn, alcoholic uncle nobody spoke to at family gatherings; the kind of place where liquor stores and beer barns grew in the same profusion as Starbucks in more civilized areas.
A full moon shone down to mingle with neon-bright signs, lighting the near-empty streets. Arm in arm, with easy, relaxed steps, Bonnie Blue and Crow McMorris strolled along the sidewalk. It was late, and they had the whole of State Street to themselves, save for the occasional car cruising swiftly by, or a handful of drunken factory workers spilling from the door of a nearby bar. Besotted as they were, the group still had sense enough to cross the road as the couple advanced, warned by some deep instinct that even the hardest liquor failed to silence. A light ground fog seemed to follow in their path, doubtless blown inland from the coast.
Dismissing the revelers, Crow and Bonnie walked on through the night.
“So, here's what I don't get,” said Crow, picking up the thread of an earlier conversation. “Everybody knows what a creep Jackson Caine was; why would anyone want him resurrected?”
Bonnie shrugged.
“Ya got me. Been trying to figure that out since them Retconning posts started. Whole lotta hype, for a whole lot of nothing, though.”
“That is a little weird. All this talk of revenge, then a complete no-show -- makes you wonder if it was all an elaborate diversion.”
Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought it over.
“Could be, I reckon. Awful lot of trouble for no follow-through. Only person who might have benefited from my being distracted is Odin -- and subtlety ain't exactly his game.”
“You have a gift for understatement,” Crow replied, smiling at her. “And a fair point. Odin may be many things, but deceptive isn't one of them.”
“Right,” Bonnie agreed. “So unless we find out otherwise, I'm just gonna assume it was some fanboy looking for his fifteen minutes. Probably gonna keep making noise for another week or so, then disappear once he realises ain't nobody biting.”
“I dunno. Your buddy Rabid took the bait,” he pointed out.
“Rabid's a lost soul these days. Somebody outed him, political career shot down in flames, and -- well, let's not talk about that. Just, y'know, it's understandable his judgement is a little off.”
“You're right. Why else would anybody pick on Teddy Sol? Like he's even gonna still be champ by One.”
“That's all I'm saying --”
Their discussion is cut short as someone lurched into their path, leaning heavily on a lightpost for support. Bonnie recognised the signs instantly: sunken eyes, pallid skin, and a generally unkempt look. Despite the bottle clutched in one hand, concealed in a paper bag that wasn't fooling anyone, it was readily apparent this man was a habitual junkie -- exactly the kind of man she was looking for.
“Hey, man,” Bonnie said, as he righted himself against the streetlamp. “You look like a dude who might be able to help me out.”
His eyes widened as she flashed a stack of large bills, and he nodded hastily. He was already picturing the next fix, his thoughts playing out plainly in glassy eyes. Bonnie favored him with her most beguiling smile.
“Leave the bottle. Where we're going, you won't need it.”
Obligingly, the junkie opened his hand and let the bottle fall, to shatter on the pavement below. He blinked in mild confusion as the Time Witch made a gesture with her left hand, and a silvery-blue haze appeared shimmering in the air before her. It widened, elongated; and just as his heroin-addled mind began to have second thoughts, he turned to find his escape blocked by the imposing form of Crow McMorris. Trembling in fear, or maybe withdrawal, and with no way out, he was obliged to step through the glittering portal -- and into the vast unreality of the Rock of Ages.
***********************************************
Part Two: Shooting Gallery
Part Two: Shooting Gallery
Ayy, yo, Blue Ballers! It's ya gurl, Double B, comin’ at ya live from the home of Stephen muthafuckin’ King, right here in Bang-Her, Maine! Ha! I made a Mustache joke, get it?
Grinning in self-satisfaction, the young goddess sweeps her arm behind her to encompass the grounds of the fabulous King estate, complete with a fully restored house in red brick, with gables and turrets and other hallmarks of gothic architecture. An iron fence surrounds the property, its enormous gate surmounted by a pair of bat wings.
Now, I reckoned I'd take this opportunity to clear a couple things up. There’s been questions, rumors, and even outright criticism of the way ya girl be handling her business. F'instance, I hear tell one of my detractors can't seem to comprehend how it is that sometimes -- like now -- I talk to y'all in a relaxed, informal way, using a lot of slang and grammatical shortcuts, whereas other times I speak clear and proper. Well, let's start with that, cause that's easy: I ain’t a one-dimensional joke, constrained to limitations, like my dumbfuck opponent last week. And the fact is, we all put on a different persona, depending who we're talking to. Besides, didn't nobody have a problem with it when my daddy done it. Maybe mind ya own damn business and don't ask stupid questions.
But then there's the real elephant in the room, right? All them accusations ‘bout how I killed Jackson Caine?
I mean, I didn't put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. I didn't convince him to return to active wrestling against medical advice. I didn't set up that deathtrap with them tables and chairs next to a thirty-foot ladder, neither. And I damn sure didn't invite neither his obsession, nor his hatred. This is a man who stalked and harassed me for months. The only thing I'm guilty of is self-defense.
All the same, his blood is on my hands. And if I had it to do over again?
You better believe I would happily execute him right there in that ring, in front of everybody. Her shoulda died that night, after I cracked his skull just like I said I was gonna. It was dumb luck or pure stubbornness that saved him. I shoulda ended him a week later in that damn hospital room, but I showed mercy. And besides, all my focus was on Odin Balfore and that Ultimate Showdown qualifier. Killing a man wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list, ‘specially when he didn't pose no immediate threat, y'all feel me?
Good. Now that's all out the way, looks like it's me and Noble Savage -- so far undefeated as a tag team -- stepping in that ring against El Gran Grande et cetera and his partner, El Ainsley; who are in no way, shape, or form at all those former tag champs, the Very Big Supremacists. Nope. They don't even bear a passing resemblance.
Furthermore, since outright lies are favored over factual statements, and researching your opponents is for chumps, I'm gonna state unequivocally that these Very Big Spaniards have, in fact, never held a title in Dub-See-Eff. For that matter, I don't care what titles they never had! I never had a title, either!
What Horrorkore championship reign? Nah, they ain't been calling me the Horrorkore Queen ‘cause I actually fought for that belt and successfully defended it in singles competition or nothing. Nah, I ain't still got a rematch unclaimed. As a matter of fact, I don't even know what a hardcore title looks like. And how about them tag straps?
The young goddess shakes her head vigorously, an over-earnest expression on her face.
Nuh-uh. No way. Never once even been in a tag match, let alone with David Sanchez as my partner; and especially not in a match where we utterly humiliated the Very Big Supremacists and took them titles off those fat fucks. And it absolutely did not happen at Asesinato De Mayo in Mexico. Additionally, Williams's junk is fine. He has never had his groin pulverized by me or my non-existent tag team partner, whom I have never had.
Goddamn! I'm so glad that Sammy Not-Dune McForeskin showed me this shortcut to perfect shoot. I had no idea you could just get by prattling about nothing, using the same tired insults, and knowing absolutely zero facts about your opponent. This is gonna make my life so much easier.
Like, for example, now I don't have to know that El Gran Grande once defeated Odin Balfore in a match! All I have to do is call him a coward thirty-seven times and insist that, despite the fact that he has no control over booking decisions, he's avoiding me. Because he's a coward. And possibly a bitch. Who has never held a title anywhere.
I don't have to watch hours of interviews, promos, and matches to know that William and Ainsley are technically fugitives from the law; or that they accept the guidance of a cereal-fixated sociopath bent on global annihilation; or that El Gran Grande is deathly afraid of hospitals and has an irrational dislike of anybody under six-and-a-half feet tall and less than three-hundred pounds.
I don't need to know that William also once beat Gawdnilla Almighty Himself, Wade Moor, in a match involving a live megalodon; nor, again, that William and Ainsley were tag team champions for months before Dave and I came along to claim them shinies for ourselves.
Nah. A couple of barely-animal noises that mean, essentially, nothing -- that's all it takes. Just call y'all both a coward, say YAARP, and call it a day. Thank Goddess I never have to know anything about an opponent again! I can just make random assumptions. You know what?
Odin Balfore has never held a title in the Dub, neither! Or he did and I don't care because I'm too fucking lazy to click a link on that company website that lists all the champions. Or maybe it ain't laziness. Maybe, in spite of whining about whatever dumb shit pops into my head, I just don't really give a fuck about this company! NAARP!
Am I bitter about losing to that overwrought fucktard? Yeah, y'all goddess-damn right I am! Maybe if the cocksucker would take a shower once, I wouldn't have been overpowered by body odor that even a gallon of Axe Body Spray couldn't quite disguise.
So, yeah, I'm pretty damn pissed, and once again, poor William and Ainsley are gonna bear the brunt of my frustrations. I'd feel sorry for them, but the Behemoth still fails to even account for my existence, in spite of the fact that it was me who sent Dave after him with that iron mask; me who encouraged every punt to the nutsack, even the ones he suffered at the hands of Fourgasm; me who took his tag strap and ended whatever hope of relevance he had. And Ainsley? Well, he's just along for the ride. I don't know what kinda weird codependency thing y'all got going, but Ainsley, one day that oversized bastard is gonna get your ass killed. I can't say whether in the ring, out on the street, or if he's gonna cause you a stroke in the long run -- but after Monday night, I don't reckon that's gonna be much concern one way or the other.
Let me put it in terms you two morons can understand: Monday night, Bonnie Blue and Noble Savage fixing to beat y'all’s ass -- and there ain't shit y'all gonna do to stop us!
Bonnie flips a backward peace sign at the camera, and the scene abruptly ends.
***********************************************
Part Three: Here Be Monsters
Part Three: Here Be Monsters
Predawn light lent a diffuse glow to the eastern horizon as gentle waves lapped the rocky coastline. A narrow beach stretched for half a mile north and a quarter mile south, where Bonnie Blue was busy drawing intricate sigils in the sand with a stick, under the watchful eye of Lady Abernathy. Nearby, but largely ignored, the addict Bonnie had picked up earlier paced the confines of a circle twenty feet in diameter, now and again pounding a fist against the unseen barrier keeping him in place. R-7, Bonnie's faithful android companion, was carefully turning the thick, yellowed pages of an ancient tome, bound in a leather whose origin was better left unquestioned.
Walking a wider circle around the small gathering was the muscular, yet somehow bookish figure of Professor Archimedes Skrüe -- resident expert on the occult at Miskatonic University. He'd agreed to participate in the endeavor only after the Time Witch had promised him a hefty sum of fifteen thousand dollars and exclusive publishing rights to anything the early morning experiment might produce. At intervals -- the cardinal and quarter points of the circle -- he stooped to place a small item of mystical significance on the sand. Torches ringed the overall area, bright and flickering against the darkness.
Preparations complete, the young goddess stalked to the center of the circle, where the man -- now inhabited by the Norse god Ymir -- railed helplessly against his predicament.
“We had a bargain!” he shouted, for possibly the hundredth time.
“And I found you a vessel,” Bonnie told him. “Never agreed to let ya keep all them powers. Not considering everything you was capable of without a body.”
“That's not fair!”
“Fair? You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you harassed me and my Guardians with incessant nightmares? Was it fair when you handpicked my Hellimination team without consulting me? Was it fair to even put us in this situation to begin with?”
He scowled at her.
“But your team was victorious!”
The Time Witch scoffed.
“Barely. And no thanks to you! You didn't even foresee Gravedigger bringing in his thugs. Damn near ruined the whole thing. Now, shut up, or it'll be more'n just your powers I let the Old Ones take from ya.”
She stalked away, heedless of the curses and insults hurled after her, to rejoin her companions outside the circle. A brief, hurried conference, and they determined that everything was ready. Except that one of their number was missing.
“Hold up,” Bonnie said. “Where's Brandi?”
The Lady Abernathy gave Bonnie an inscrutable look, then shrugged. As if on cue, the young goddess’ phone chimed, alerting her to someone trying to contact her via FaceTime. Bonnie checked the phone, and sure enough, it was Noble Savage. Stepping away, she answered.
The background behind Savage was chaotic. Flames reached into the night sky. Sirens wailed, red lights flashing, as fire trucks arrived on the scene. Brandi looked a little sheepish. Meanwhile, on the beach, a low, sonorous chanting had begun, pre-recorded on an mp3 player and amplified through a dollar store speaker.
“Looks like somebody got sidetracked,” Bonnie observed, a wry smile on her lips.
“Yeah, well, it's like this…”
And Savage went on to explain her current situation: how she had seen the letters VBS and naturally assumed they'd had something to do with this week's opponents; allowed that she had possibly gone a little bit overboard; and concluded that Vacation Bible School -- while nearly as objectionable as William and Ainsley themselves -- hadn't, in fact, been in any way affiliated with the Very Big Spaniards.
All throughout Noble's explanation, the chanting had continued to drone. At some point, the android R-7 started to read aloud from the book in his hands, his electronic speech circuits able to pronounce precisely each word -- a task impossible for the human tongue. Waves slapped the shoreline with increasing ferocity. Thunder rumbled and lightning streaked through a cloudless sky. The imprisoned Ymir trembled at the first glimpse of some many-tentacled shape in the darkness. The wind howled its own madness into the night.
Without a word, nor even a sound, Lady Abernathy approached. She sketched a geometric pattern in the sand at her feet with practiced ease. And then, twirling on the spot like an otherworldly dancer, she reached into the now-glowing disc beneath her feet. On the screen, Bonnie saw a hand rise up to grasp Savage’s, then pull. A look of bemused surprise registered on the young woman's face -- just as Abernathy yanked her through the portal in the sand. Suddenly, Bonnie Blue and Noble Savage stood face to face.
Together, the three women walked down the beach to observe the ritual. Professor Skrüe scrambled between video cameras and boom mics set up to record from every conceivable angle. Ymir shouted in defiance at the storm raging around them while the android continued to recite the words with unerring calm. Perched on a rocky promontory in the distance, Crow McMorris overlooked the whole affair, ready to intercede if he needed to, but content now simply to watch.
The moment came. Seven invoked the name of Gorgoroth; the sea split in two and a soul-rending shriek pierced the air. From that point, no two accounts quite agreed, but what the Time Witch saw was a hulking figure, squat like a toad, but with dozens of writhing tentacles. Two enormous, leathery wings sprouted from its back and spread wide enough to block out the stars. It glared balefully at each of them in turn before settling its hostile gaze on Ymir. Scaly appendages shot forward to seize the unfortunate god. Purple-white electricity wreathed the two figures, brightened for several moments; and at an imperious command from the android, faded away once more.
The command was repeated twice. Tentacles withdrew in obvious reluctance, letting the unconscious Ymir drop to the sand. Great wings flapped once, stirring up a mighty wave from the ocean as it closed again. All at once, Gorgoroth vanished, and they were alone on the beach again.
Bonnie and Savage rushed to Ymir's side, tending as best they could the physical injuries he'd sustained. He roused slowly, weakened from the experience. Storm-gray eyes opened, focused on the women, and showed no sign of recognition.
“What happened?” he asked in a soft, raspy voice.
“You don't remember?” Savage said.
He shook his head, frowning.
“I think -- I think I was going for a swim, and then -- it feels like someone knocked me out,” he said.
Bonnie nodded.
“Can't say for sure, but we found ya washed up on the beach,” the young goddess told him, deciding to go with it. “Do ya remember who you are? Where you live? Is there anyone we can call for ya?”
He was silent for a moment as he sought to think it over.
“My name is Ymir, and my home is in Asgard,” he said at last. “I have been betrayed by my own kind. There is no one to summon.”
“Well then,” Bonnie said, reaching into her pocket to hand him a stack of hundreds. “Take this. Don't say I never gave ya nothing.”
Ymir gave her a thin smile of thanks as he rose to his feet, then walked off down the beach without another word. Savage shot Bonnie a curious glance. The Time Witch shrugged.
“I did feel kinda bad about binding his power. Least I could do.”
Savage nodded her understanding, then turned her attention to the east, where the sun had begun to rise. Crow walked up to join them, putting an arm around the young blonde’s shoulders. He whispered in her ear, and she nodded assent. It was time to go.