Ruling Class

[Bonnie Blue]

Chapter One:
God Save the Queen

No elaborate setting, this time: only a throne of steel -- garlanded in barbed wire, the names of each fallen victim carved with callous precision into every available inch -- picked out by a solitary spotlight; and seated upon it, with all the regal bearing a brand new World Champion can muster, is Bonnie Blue -- the one and only Hardcore Queen. Iridescent black vinyl hugs every curve, subtle scales shimmering green and violet beneath the light. A heart-shaped cutout over her chest is trimmed in black lace that covers her to the neck in a high collar. Crimson fingernails tap on the enormous golden plate of the WCF World Title draped over one shoulder. Blood-red lips turn up in a viperous smile.

Ya shoulda stayed in the gutter, little trash princess. Ya shouldn't have gotten ideas above your station. Ya shouldn't have started calling yourself a “hardcore queen” -- because then, you woulda remained beneath my notice. You would have been safe.

But you decided to infringe on my trademark, and now you've got my attention. Every bit of it, laser-focused on you.

Just like Odin Balfore.

Just like Jackson Caine.

Just like Leon Hayze -- the very man I liberated that hardcore strap from. The one you're parading around like you even have a clue what hardcore really means.

You ain't got a fucking clue. But don't you worry about that, ‘cause Bonnie Blue fixing to show ya.

In a single motion, all serpentine grace, the #Horrorkore Queen rises from her throne of steel. One hand resting possessively on her WCF title, she paces a close, slow circle anti-clockwise around the chair.

Remember just a few short months ago, when you was all, “Cor blimey, ‘ow is ‘ardcore wrestlin’ even a fing anymore?” Nah? ‘Cause I do, ya sorry-ass cuntrag! One minute, acting like ya too high-an'-mighty to even consider a run at the hardcore division; and the next, soon as it dawns on ya that Television strap is a little outta your league, you riding that hardcore division like it's the biggest cock ya ever seen. And y'know, that woulda been fine. I can let a little hypocrisy slide -- right up to the point when ya go trying to hijack the nickname I fucking EARNED!

Hardcore ain't the shiny title around your waist, or an attitude ya gotta fake your way through -- by ya own damn admission, ya had to step outside your little princess bubble just to get y'self good and SLICK over a bit of the old ultraviolence!

Nah, bitch! Hardcore is a lifestyle; not something to take outta the closet for the occasional fun and games, then put it away again when ya done. It don't work that way. And ya wanna call y'self a queen of hardcore?

Get the fuck outta here with that shit! There is only one Hardcore Queen up in here, and that’s Bonnie muthafuckin’ Blue! That is my claim, and mine alone, paid for in blood and not to be taken lightly by low class gutter trash like you!

I've been carrying that Hardcore Queen title for over two years -- ever since I ended the career of one of the toughest motherfuckers to ever set foot in a ring! And I beat him at his own damn game!

Stevie Corah -- the Brixton Brawler. Let me tell ya a little about ol’ Stevie, sugar. He was a mean son of a bitch! Dominated the competition in that ring week after week -- kinda like you claim to, except with a lot less marks in the L column, ya dig? Spilling blood was a way of life for our boi Stevie. He literally crushed a man's eye sockets once, just for looking at him. Left him blinded and bleeding on the pavement outside some shithole bar. And that's the same attitude, the same volatility he brought to the ring! That's why everyone fell before him -- except me.

But then, you know all about Brixton, don't you? I mean, aside from that Clash song, since you're from London, and all.

Sarcasm drips like venom with each word.

Ell-oh-ell! Of course y'are. Totally authentic. Not a poser at all. But my point, princess is that I took a man so vile he made Alex DeLarge look like nothing more than a schoolyard bully -- and reduced him to a beaten mongrel, whimpering at my feet! And I did it with all the odds against me, in a bare-knuckle street fight that didn't end until I planted his face through the windshield of a taxi! Corah never was the same after. Couple weeks later, just faded out of existence -- same as Leon Hayze after I took that belt you're hanging onto.

You still think you're hardcore?

Blood-red lips quirk in a predatory smile accompanied by a derisive chuckle; a dual pair of pointed fangs gleam beneath the spotlight, just for an instant. Sea-blue eyes glitter with malicious mirth.

You think you're a queen? Who do you rule? Hmm? One loyal subject alone, too naive and blind to see you for what you are.

I rule over Norse gods and archdukes; I dismiss confusion and destroy mythologies, while you cry and whine like a dog without a bone.

And you dare call yourself hardcore!

Hardcore don't shy away from a challenge; Hardcore accepts it and raises the stakes!

Hardcore willingly, happily steps into an electrified steel cage with a man who wants nothing more than to end your life -- and instead ends his rule as champion!

Hardcore defeated Kevin Bishop and wrested the You-See-Eye World Title from his iron grasp! Hardcore dethroned the Lost King and crowned Bonnie Blue in his place! And where is Kevin Bishop now? Huh?

Gone. Less than a ghost; a fading memory like smoke on the wind. And that, all because of the true Hardcore Queen!

Every significant match, every meaningful victory, every career ended at my hands; all in hardcore matches. Monster's Ball -- locked in a dungeon, without food or water or light -- I defended my Intercontinental Championship against two men! In a South London Street Fight, I silenced the guns of Brixton to reclaim that same title. Kevin Bishop’s electrified cage earned me my first World Title. I made Leon Hayze my personal bitch in the division that made him famous; embraced #Horrorkore because hardcore wasn't hard enough, ya feel me? Took his belt, took his pride, put the old man out to pasture.

And Jackson Caine? I knew damn good and well what I was doing. I knew he'd push the limits, make a mistake. And when he did, you bet your ass I capitalized on it! That's how hardcore rolls!

Hardcore is relentless!

Hardcore is merciless!

Hardcore is pain and savagery!

Hardcore is blood and bruises and broken bones; and in the end, it won't matter if they're mine or yours. Bones mend. Bruises fade. And quenched in blood, glory is eternal!

But you, little gutter queen -- you wouldn't know about that. Not yet.

Monday night, you're about to find out what hardcore really means.

***********************************************

Chapter Two:
London Calling

“Union Jack’s ‘Authentic’ English Pub & Grille” proclaimed the sign above a freestanding cottage in the middle of the university district. The exterior was harmless enough, windows outlined with Christmas lights and a wreath hung on the wooden door. Even so, John Rabid hesitated, eyeing the place skeptically. He turned to Bonnie Blue, who had suggested going for a drink.

“Why is the word authentic in quotes?” he asked her.

Bonnie giggled. She knew; she'd done her homework earlier that day. A quick Google search had given her a pretty good idea what they were walking into.

“Oh, you'll see,” she told him, her tone teasing.

“Somehow, I fail to be reassured,” he murmured in reply.

Nevertheless, he opened the door, and WCF’s hottest power couple stepped inside -- into a jumbled chaos of overwrought stereotypes. Union flags of varying sizes adorned three of the four walls; strings of wedge-shaped pennants criss-crossed overhead; an enormous Abbey Road poster dominated the fourth wall, behind a long, polished-oak bar. The scent of stale beer and frying oil were a heavy miasma in the air. Although the establishment was empty of patrons, a hostess approached the pair anyway.

“Do you have reservations?” she asked, thankfully without any pretense at an accent.

“Oh, so very many,” Rabid said. “But we're here anyway.”

The waitress gave them a thin smile and led them to a booth, dropped a couple of menus, and vanished again. The table’s surface was a vintage London street map, laminated onto the wood; a tin replica of a double-decker bus served as a napkin dispenser. Just beyond their table, an HD television played a rugby match in a solitary, reluctant nod to actual authenticity.

“What is all this? Besides a travesty.”

Bonnie shot her lover a grin.

“Exactly that,” she agreed. “Some poser's way of trying to make a cheap profit off your heritage and culture.”

“Oh. So it's a metaphor for Kennedy Matthews.”

The Time Witch nodded. “Exactly.”

“I'd ask Kennedy Matthews what the sound of bow bells means, she'll probably answer with a wut? A dancing archer? The bint is an absolute joke. This is my country, Bonnie. This is England, see that plastic plate of Winston Churchill on the wall? That’s Kennedy Mathews, a weightless reflection of what the world thinks of this isle,taking the best of my nation and cheapening it, and it fucking sickens me. What is she? What the fuck is she? Is she an actual person? No, she can’t be because she has no accent, no sense of self, no backstory that makes sense. She’s a pillock!”

“Yeah, appropriation kinda looks like a pattern with her. You seen that moveset? Her curbstomp she calls ‘Brexit’? Real original, right? Could it be any more painfully obvious she simply lifted the inspiration directly from that Brexit Bomb you used all last year? I mean, fuck’s sake, I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all, but there's gotta be a line.

Kennedy Matthews ain't nothing more than a rip off artist. She cherry picks what she likes and hopes the rest of us are too busy not being losers to notice. And so far, it's worked, because she was mostly scavenging the carcasses of dead careers.

Then she got that hardcore belt, and conveniently forgot there were others before her. Because it came to her easy, because she didn't have to bleed for it, she forgot those of us who did. And she figured maybe -- just maybe -- she could get by with one more little bit of larceny.

That line? She fucking crossed it. Bad enough she's trying to build a reputation on a culture that ain't hers, now she's trying to appropriate my legacy -- the legacy I've built in spite of every obstacle put in my path -- and I ain’t about to stand for that shit.

Today that appropriation ends. Kennedy Matthews gonna step to ya girl thinking she's hard, and that's when reality fixing to knock that bitch upside the head. It's time for a damn wake-up call she ain't gonna wake up from, ya feel me? I am and always have been the one true Hardcore Queen, and I ain’t about to let some pretender anywhere near my throne. Monday night, there's a hardcore ass-whooping coming for Kennedy Matthews, courtesy of Bonnie Blue.”

Casually, the young goddess flipped open the menu, sea-blue eyes skimming the selections, each more insipid than the last. She stopped when she got to the first one under the heading of “Chef's Specials”.

“Oh… bollocks…”

Rabid glanced at her sharply, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“What is it?”

Hesitant, certain of his reaction to this latest insult added to the ever growing list, both fearful of and eager to see it, Bonnie read the words aloud like a forbidden incantation.

“West Ham --”

“I already don't like where this is going.”

“-- on rye,” she concluded, sounding vaguely apologetic.

As she watched, a range of emotions played across his face to culminate in a seething boil of outrage. It was a step too far.

“Fuck this shit!” he snarled. “Fuck all of it!”

Slamming both hands down on the table, he rose abruptly, startling the handful of other patrons who evidently failed to share or even comprehend his indignation. He caught them looking in his direction and glared balefully back.

“Out! Get the fuck out, you plastic fucks!”

Still, they hesitated, forks poised over plates; glasses of foamy beer frozen halfway to mouths. But as he stormed to the bar, they suddenly came to their senses and ran for the door. Rabid was stuffing a rag into the neck of a vodka bottle when Bonnie joined him and offered him her lighter. She struck the flint, sparking a flame that caught the volatile rag almost immediately.

A wicked smile passed between them. Rabid took careful aim and flung the Molotov cocktail hard into the collection of liquors behind the bar. Flame spread rapidly, fed by the cheap, tawdry decorations strewn throughout. Taking her by the hand, Rabid led Bonnie outside into the cool winter night. They retreated a safe distance, watching the blaze.

“Now that,” Bonnie commented, “was hardcore.”

As sirens wailed in the distance, the Time Witch began softly to sing, slightly out of tune.

“I don't want to set the world on fire; I just want to start… a blaze in your heart…”

And Bonnie Blue wrapped her arms around John Rabid’s neck, pulling him into a deep, tender kiss while fire raged in the background.

***********************************************

Chapter Three:
One Kingdom (Under Rabid)

Looming over London’s docklands skyline is the Canary Wharf studios of Echelon Media: a glass monolith of buzzing activity. The building is a beacon for the pride of British wrestling as it undergoes a renaissance under the guiding, megalomaniacal hand of John Rabid and his Kingdom Pro Wrestling organization. KPW is the nation's number one promotion that draws a weekly rating of nine point five for their saturday night flagship show, “Rampage”, pummeling the likes of Doctor Who into a Sunday night retreat where competition is far less fierce.

Within this fortress of independent wrestling resides an impressive arena set up; a huge “Kingtron” looms over a stainless steel ramp, expansive stage, and cutting edge commentator booth and of course the fans, who even at this early stage of proceedings are filing in, eager with anticipation for tonight's main event, the masked hero: “Mystery Jack” set to fight the seven foot tall goliath “Hadrian Wall” for a shot at the KPW world title.

Within the skybox studio that hangs like an impossible magic trick above the bleeds paces John Rabid; charcoal suit slightly charcoaled by his combustive outburst.

“Look Sadiq, I did what I had to do, what you should be doing. Yes, my actions were justified. Don’t raise your voice with me, you promised the people of London you’d give them back their city. What I did today was simply clearing the decks. Yes, I’ll buy out the property If I must, and I’ll restore it back to its original foundations. A proper pub for actual cockneys. Happy? Good. Now do one!”

“Sadiq?” Bonnie asked as he disconnected the call.

“Sadiq Khan, mayor of London.”

“Nice to have friends in high places,” she mused. “I thought we were gonna get busted for sure.”

Rabid shot the young goddess next to him a sideways glance, prepared to remind her that people like him weren't subject to such petty considerations; until a wry smile and a wink told him she was teasing.

“Anyway, I was just trying to Google this obvious knock off brand these Matthews people supposedly established, but I ain't seeing a damn thing about Kingdom Come Wrestling.”

“You won't,” he told her. “They were an annoyance. A blemish on the landscape of professional wrestling and a pale echo of everything I established here. A parasite company feeding on my image, my reputation! So just like that pub last night, I did what needed to be done. I obliterated the promotion, wiped it out of existence so thoroughly that even the Matthews clan has a hard time remembering it as more than a shattered dream.”

“God, it turns me on when ya talk like that!”

She moved closer, fingers delicately tracing their way up his broad chest. He caught her hand and held it.

“Bonnie, a little decorum, please,” he admonished, though a hint of a smile played at his lips. “We are working.”

With a reluctant sigh, she nodded slowly.

“You're right. I should focus. So what you're saying is, this kinda behavior runs in that shallow gene pool. Copying from their betters ‘cause they ain't got the wit or the SLICK to do it on their own! Just like how Kennedy tried to hijack my Hardcore Queen trademark.

She's a leech. A boil that needs lanced. A parasite from a long line of parasites, feeding off the hard work the rest of us put in, and trying to pass it off as her own.”

“Quite so,” Rabid agreed. “And you know what we should do with a parasite?”

“Bleed the presumptuous little bitch dry?” Bonnie suggested hopefully.

The Serpent favored his lover with an indulgent smile. To think, their relationship had begun on such negative terms; now, Bonnie Blue was his, body and soul, all of her own free will. Funny how things tended to work out sometimes.

“If you like, my dear,” he replied at last.

She pursed her lips, sea-blue eyes narrowed in thought.

“Hmm. I dunno. Might be too good for her. Too easy. Kennedy Matthews wants to embody hardcore? Wants to call herself queen when her pedigree screams streetwalker? I mean, for real -- she's been trying to get in Jaice Wilds’ pants, like that's difficult, and acting like it's some kinda achievement. And she's out there tainting the entire hardcore division with that same bottom-shelf inadequacy. She gonna bleed, that's damn sure, and it's gonna be at my hands -- when I send her to the only fate she deserves: obsolescence. Consigned to the rubbish bin, thrown away and forgotten like everyone who came before, thinking they're badder than this Hardcore Queen right here!

Monday night, I'm gonna stomp out the last of the Matthews parasitic legacy when I annihilate that silly bitch in front of that West Virginia crowd! There's only one way this ends, and it's with Kennedy Matthews in a body bag!”