Burning For You

[Bonnie Blue]

Home on the Highway

Home in the valley
Home in the city
Home isn't pretty
Ain't no home for me

Home in the darkness
Home on the highway
Home isn't my way
Home will never be

Late night on an open highway; two lanes in either direction, separated by a wide median of yellowing grass. Moonglow filters eerily through an overcast winter sky over dark trees crowding close to the road. Headlights scythe through the inky-black night as the first drops of rain patter against the windshield of a 2017 Ford Ranchero. Inside the car, Bonnie Blue reaches forward, shutting off the sounds of the Blue Oyster Cult. Beside her, in the passenger seat, her lover and this week's tag partner, John Rabid, consults Google Maps on his phone.

“The interchange is just ahead,” he informs her. “About a mile to go, and there’s an exit just past. Did you know this highway is six-hundred sixty-six miles from start to finish? An auspicious sign, considering. I'm still not sure why we didn't just fly. I do have a jet, you know.”

“Trying to keep a low profile, hon,” Bonnie replies. “Don't need nobody gettin’ a heads up on our arrival, ‘specially reckoning on what -- who -- we're dealing with. Besides, we had the time, and a road trip is fun. You can't tell me y'ain't been having a good time.”

A cocky smirk turns up one corner of his mouth as he leans in to kiss her neck.

“That owes more to the very pleasurable company I keep, my dear, than the journey.”

The touch of his lips sends a shiver of delight up her spine, even as he draws away again. Bonnie gives him a knowing smile and a suggestive wink.

“You silver-tongued Serpent…”

“You knew what I was when you picked me up,” he quips, making oblique reference to a time when the two of them were the bitterest of enemies.

“If I didn't then, I do now: you're a scoundrel.”

Her tone is light, teasing. That was all long ago, a past dead and buried; transgressions since made up for.

“I would be affronted -- if that wasn't absolutely the truth.”

With a sideways glance at the Serpent, Bonnie reluctantly removes his hand from her thigh; it still feels surreal, the two of them together now in spite of their previous hostility. Or perhaps, in part, because of it. Burning hate had tempered to mutual respect, even admiration. Necessity had fanned the flame and forged it into something new.

Something beyond love.

Something cosmic.

She twines her fingers with his and brings his hand up to brush it with her lips. She doesn't need to say the words written on her heart. Their bond is intimate and everlasting; he knows. With a slight shake of her head, Bonnie shifts her focus back to the road -- and the task at hand.

“So, what have we got?”

“So far? Not much. A string of disappearances in the area, spread out over several years. Apparently unrelated.”

“Apparently,” Bonnie echoes, a hint of derision in her tone.

“Right. If you don't know what you're looking for -- and the locals are more clueless than WCF management.”

“Harsh.”

“But true. If that World Title match had been one-on-one, like it was supposed to, Noble Savage would never have had a chance to usurp your place as Champion by pinning that buffoon Richards. Alone, against you? Not a chance.”

“Well, now she's got both of us to contend with, and I really doubt Odin Balfore’s gonna be real inclined to back her up. He wants that belt back almost as much as I do. Difference is, I still got a rematch -- and Savage screwed him outta his. If the All-Daddy is smart, this will be a handicap match.”

John Rabid shakes his head, a rueful smile revealing the hint of Serpent's teeth behind his lips.

“Smart is one thing nobody accused Odin Balfore of being. He's still full of salt over your Payback victory. I wouldn't count on him as anything but an obstacle -- a lesser one, at that.”

A scowl darkens Bonnie's delicate features, lip curled in a predatory sneer. Her fury at losing the title she had to fight tooth and nail for -- while Savage had the luxury to sit back and coast through the months between War and One -- hasn't cooled with the passage of time. The Daughter of Time had delivered main event level performances every week for three solid months; Brandi only had to step it for pay-per-views, and spent the intervening weeks kicking the shit out of the undercard.

Worse, her title reign had been overshadowed by the incessant antics of a family of incestuous perverts, and management had actively encouraged the vulgarity. Yet again, another huge middle finger to Bonnie Blue, and all for what? She, at least, was serious about her WCF career, in spite of the fact that management kept making her the punchline of an ongoing joke.

Without warning, she switches lanes and hits the next exit, pulling into the nearly empty lot of a twenty-four hour roadside diner.

“Fuck it,” she says, in response to Rabid's questioning look. “I want pie.”

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

Single White Fangurl

You read like one of those pathetic advertisements in the back of your local free paper, Brandi:

Single White Female seeking long-term, one-sided relationship. Will admire from afar, obsess, and stalk. Looking for eventual commitment to psychiatric care facility.

Sound familiar, you deranged psychotic cunt?

I want to tell you that I'd have been flattered, that maybe things would be different between us if you'd just been upfront and honest. But that would be a lie. You're a one-night stand, at best -- and then just because I couldn't find someone less likely to boil my bunny. You got skank written all over you -- probably in scars, ‘cause you look like a cutter. You don't feel, so you want to bleed.

You're in luck. ‘Cause that's just what I'm fixing to do -- bleed you like the worthless vermin you are.

Do you know how many psychopaths have tried this shit in the last year alone? Do you remember what happened to Jackson Caine?

Let me refresh that recollection for ya, Sugar.

This prancing nitwit followed me from town to town, hotel to hotel, venue to venue; lurkin’ around every corner, leavin’ creepy little gifts in my locker room, and generally bein’ a nuisance. So I tried to handle it the right way and got a restraining order. Predictably, he tore it to pieces and then pissed on it -- and the next week, he's right back to the same shit. Even got into my hotel room after I checked out and dug through my trash. And all because, in his twisted little mind, I was playing an elaborate game of hard to get.

I wasn't playing then, and I damn sure ain't playing now.

Jackson Caine pushed and pushed until I had no choice but to respond in kind. His obsession turned dark and violent -- and so did I. I promised him a split skull and that's what he got. Jackson Caine is dead because he got a hard on for the wrong girl.

Now I see you trying to walk that path, and I'mma tell ya right now, Brandi, it won't end no better for you. Unlike some people, I learned from my mistakes, and you wanna be starting this psycho stalker shit with me -- ya girl gonna finish it, like I'm the Spanish Inquisition.

Ain't nobody expect that shit.

Now, y'know, this coulda worked out better for us both. You and me, well, I thought we was on the same page. I thought our friendship was based on mutual respect -- not your obsession with getting into my panties. Because, let's be very clear right now, you ain't got half the reason to hate John Rabid that I once did; you're jealous and you're clutching at straws, so you call him a monster.

And maybe he is, but have you looked in a mirror lately?

In the same breath, you say he's made me his victim, a mere plaything to his whims -- yet insist that I've betrayed the Guardians, or you, or some weird occult ideal you ascribed to me. But it can't be both. Either the Serpent beguiled me into his evil clutches; or I willfully and purposely stepped onto this path. Make up your mind.

Or, more accurately, get Lady Abernathy to do it for you.

Call me a puppet while she pulls your strings. Because, you know, irony is entirely lost on you.

Like the irony of thinking you're some kind of wrestling savant because you “dethroned” the legitimate WCF World Champion -- by pinning Alex Richards. You like to run your mouth about beating Odin Balfore twice; but that first time was by out and out cheating, remember? You nailed him with a wrench, you fucking pleb! A wrench!

My first victory over the big, bad All-Daddy?

Submission. Pure and clean. Unquestionable.

Flawless victory.

What do you got, really? A War win you failed to capitalize on, and one solid victory over Odin Balfore in Hellimination -- an opportunity you wouldn't have had without me. If I hadn't asked you to be on my team that night, you'd have that one dusty finish and nothing else.

And some other chump be talking shit about Bonnie needing their help to get a World Title shot.

But, help me remember here… how many times have you pinned me in that ring? How many solid wins have you racked up over Bonnie Blue? Hmm? A DQ. That's what you got.

One solitary disqualification. All part of a larger strategy; all because I thought you had the potential to be more than some beta rookie scrub who got lucky their first time going to War. Wouldn't be the first time I was wrong.

See, there’s a flaw in your thinking. You see how WCF treats me like a damn joke and you don't look past that. You don't realize that before all this, I was main eventing, dominating, WCF’s sister company, UCI. Me and Alex were the last ever, undefeated tag team champions. I was world champ for almost four solid months. I defeated everyone put in my path there, then I come back to WCF and did the same. Teo Del Sol. Kyle Kemp. Leon Hayze. It gets a little less impressive after that cause I'm climbing that ladder and all of a sudden, that biggest names disappear.

Coincidence?

Nah. Dune, Mikey X, Stephen Singh -- they saw the writing on the wall, spelling out their doom in blood-red letters, and they hauled ass because I was the challenger they didn't want to face. And that was before I accepted John Rabid's… gift.

You want to downplay my achievements on the one hand, but then you know your only hope of getting that gold from around my waist was to pin literally anybody else in that match. So as far as I'm concerned, that belt is still mine. You feeling pretty cocky right now, but pretty soon it's gonna sink in that you ain't got shit over me, aside from a DQ in a match I woulda easily won otherwise, and all the more now. Cause now I got a reason to put you down. Now it's personal, Savage, and that is the last goddess-damned thing you want.

Just ask Karma Bishop.

Oh, wait. You can't. She's long gone -- and you never even got that ultimate match with her. Remember that? When Karma Bishop was your biggest concern? When you were more worried about the secrets the Dark Queen was hiding in that twisted little psyche of hers than advancing your career as the winner of War?

Know why she turned tall and ran?

Don't flatter yourself it was any concern about you. What you got was my sloppy seconds, that's why she barely put up a fight. I was the one who broke Karma Bishop and sent her packing. Just like the way I broke her husband when I took that UCI strap off his waist. He let Creeping Death into his soul in an effort to stop me and still came up short.

I never needed you to help me become World Champion. You were included in my quest for gold because I liked you; respected what you were able to accomplish. I thought we could be friends. But in the long run, you were no more necessary to my goals than Stephen Singh. You were simply expedient.

So stop making believe this is some grand act of salvation; WCF didn't need to be “rescued” from me. In the long run, you're no better than I am.

Worse, in fact. I did what I did out of necessity, and it became an act of love.

You murdered in cold blood, a childish tantrum motivated by nothing more than jealousy. We're not done here, little witch. Not by a long shot.

You have something that belongs to me, and I ain't stopping until I get it back.

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

Burn Out The Day

Time is the essence
Time is the season
Time ain't no reason
Got no time to slow

Time everlasting
Time to play b-sides
Time ain't on my side
Time I'll never know.

Flashing neon plays a crimson abstract across the heavy curtain, pulled shut against prying eyes and the coming of dawn. John Rabid has a laptop open, intently scrolling through tab after tab of newspaper articles, coroner's reports, cold case files, and fringe websites about paranormal activities.

“You know,” he comments absently, “I'm not saying this motel is sketchy, but I think I just saw the Winchesters check in down the hall.”

“All of a sudden you have a sense of humor?”

“Our match is essentially a joke, so why not try to appreciate it?”

Seated on the queen-size bed, Bonnie Blue has an array of blades laid out on the ugly floral comforter, fastidiously polishing each one, then slipping them back into their respective sheathes.

“I guess that makes Noble Savage the punchline. Or she will be, when I'm through with her.”

The young goddess runs her tongue hungrily over a double pair of wickedly sharp teeth.

“She got off lucky at One, but this time ain't nowhere to run, and nobody to hide behind. From the second that bell rings, Savage is at my mercy and she's fixing to find out that's a commodity in short supply. I'm not interested in the pinfall this time, or which one of us gets it. My one and only goal is to hear this bitch scream in agony. If the delusional cunt wants to spill blood, let's see what happens when it's hers.”

The Serpent favors Bonnie with a rare, sincere smile.

“I like the focus, but don't forget about Odin. He's still a factor, albeit not much of one. He hasn't been quite the same since Payback. Still looking for his misplaced balls, I'd guess.”

“That's why he and Savage are so perfect together. She's full of adolescent adulation, and he's in desperate need of the ego boost. Abernathy gonna get jealous.”

Rabid's smile fades, and his jaw clenches just perceptibly at the mention of Savage's manager. Bonnie tactfully -- if not skillfully -- changes the subject.

“Still, that's all Monday night. We've still got the Covenant to prepare for. Finding anything?”

“Nothing I didn't already know,” he says, closing the laptop.

Bonnie clears the cache of weapons off the bed, placing them into a duffel bag, to make room as John joins her. He reaches out to brush a strand of blue-blonde hair from her face, gazing into her sea-blue eyes to find a reflection of himself therein. Not the dark and twisted monster they all see him as, but her own perception of him, unvarnished by old enmity or newfound love. She sees him as he is, the wickedness and virtue alike, and looks back with unflinching affection.

She, in turn, is what he's made of her; what he'd always seen in her, just beneath the surface: his Serpentine, a predator unleashed, unfettered by the petty concerns of mundane humanity. A dark hunter-goddess, and she is devoted to him; not through force or guile, but a profound twist of fate. She whispers to him of vengeance as they recline on the lumpy motel mattress, a sweet, blood drenched lullabye that comforts his troubled soul.

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

...The Devil His Due

Well, here we are again, Odin; and I'm guessing you're as tired of talking about me as the rest of us are hearing it. But that's because you rarely have anything new or useful to say. Empty words and hollow threats. That's pretty much it.

Oh, yeah, I know you're gloatin’ right now. Telling yourself, and anybody else who'll listen, that this is some kinda vindication: That you were right all along and little Bonnie Blue ain't got no business leading this company, wearing “your” gold.

All because I couldn't defend that belt -- in a match explicitly orchestrated to fuck me over and deprive me of the title I worked so hard for; what was, in essence, a three-on-one handicap match.

When was the last time you had to defend the World Championship under those conditions, you overstuffed peacock?

When did you last have to defend that belt against more than one opponent, for that matter?

Hmm. Let me think. Is it, possibly… fucking never? Never, in a seven year career, have you faced those odds in a title defense -- because management coddles and babies you through every title reign you ever had. Throws you easy defenses, and on the off chance you might possibly lose, well, there's always another shot isn't there? If it's not a rematch, there's some other excuse for you to get a title shot you didn't earn, while everybody else is busting their ass just to get a look in.

What was it you was saying just the other week, about how I fucked up? Yeah, well you didn't walk away with that belt, either, so you can shut your goddamn judgmental mouth.

But yeah, somewhere in there, I musta fucked up. Letting this match happen at all, for one, cause that undeserving skank sneaked a pin on my friend Alex and stole my motherfucking title. But she didn't pin me -- she never has, and after this week, she damn sure never will.

I got a rematch coming, and your erstwhile partner knows it. Lives in terror of that night. And she gonna do anything she can to avoid me getting my hands on her Monday night -- even sabotage the match by sacrificing you. We both know that. You'd be better off walking out. Turn your back and let me do what I gotta do.

Cause turning your back, that's what you're best at. How many times have you walked away from this company, Odin? Yet you got the unmitigated balls to be calling this your WCF?

Nah, my nilla, it ain’t. It never was. You didn't stomp your big ass in here and revolutionize shit. People don't hate you for being better. They hate you for being the same dull garbage you can watch in any high school or bingo hall in the country for five bucks. They hate you for being this giant doofus who gets title shots based on literally nothing -- except how you deepthroat Corey Black's micro-wang. I guess that's a skill.

But in the ring, Odin, you ain't -- what was the word you used? Illustrious? That's a big word for a guy like you. I'm sure your mommy would be proud. Y'know, if she wasn't worm food.

But illustrious -- you ain't that. You're bland. Mashed cauliflower bland. The same shit, week after week.

“I’m Odin Balfore! Bow before my might!”

Overused. A cliche comic book villain with zero substance, and no relatability.

Flavorless.

Unseasoned.

Just endless salt.

Your understanding of history and current events is lacking something, too. I mean, by now we expect guys like James Wolf and Sammy “Baked Beans” McPherson to not know shit about their opponents, but for fuck’s sake, Odin -- you were there when all the #beachkrew shit went down. You saw it all happen, the long rivalry I had with Rabid, and you want to dismiss that as a joke. But then, I wouldn't expect you to understand when you've got all the emotional depth of roadkill.

That's what makes you a perfect partner for Noble Savage. She'll happily play the dull and vapid Harley Quinn to your second-rate Mistah J. Just what you crave: a mindless fangirl to hang on your every word, the one and only faithful worshipper kneeling at the altar of Odin. Everything your shallow little heart could possibly want in a woman.

And I get it, you're trying to get under my skin because you have literally nothing else going for you. So now you're going to claim that you're the best thing that ever happened to my career; and just ignore the fact that I've held three championships in the last twelve months, and dominated a whole other company because I fucking felt like it.

This feud of ours? It's hardly noteworthy. You're a parasite, Odin. A particularly tenacious one, but still no more than a bloated tick getting fat by feeding off the work of greater talents. This isn't a feud -- it's an extermination. A pest control job. A matter of necessity.

You have to be eradicated -- not because you overshadow anyone, but because you weaken the company with your continued insistence on hogging a spotlight you never deserved.

You're not a challenge. You're not special. You're just another “big man” gimmick in faux-viking packaging. Except y’ain't even tough: you're spun glass wrapped in tissue paper, fragile as Faberge -- with about the same substance inside.

That's why ya gotta say stupid shit, like how I'm… afraid to what?

Go one-on-one with you?

Isn't that what I just did at Payback?

Did I ring your bell so hard you forgot -- or is it just senility creeping in?

Ell-oh-ell!

What's it like, Odin, to be on the other side when nobody takes you seriously? When your hours upon hours of hard work and carefully crafted personal story get sidelined, laughed off, or ignored? Yeah, I heard you bitching about that, and trust me, I know damn good and well where you're coming from because I been there. But I guess it only counts when it happens to you.

Well man up, buttercup, cause this is WCF and don't nobody got time for your shit. You ain't got no room to talk, cause clearly you forgot how I tried to incorporate your whole global apocalypse into my hardcore title pornos -- or more likely, you didn't even see them. Because I was beneath the Se7enGod's notice.

Have I got your attention now?

You downplayed and dismissed me for over a year, even though your victories over me were anything but decisive. A sucker punch one time, a complete fluke another. But I've been steadily evening the score. I have two solid victories over you. I've pinned you clean in the middle of the canvas -- for the World Title -- and made you submit, to take your spot in Ultimate Showdown.

Solid. Decisive. Unquestionable.

You think shit gonna go down any different this week? Guess again. Monday night, in front of fifteen thousand fans in the Pensacola Bay Arena -- history repeats itself when Bonnie Blue and John Rabid walk out with the win.

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

Burn Out The Night

Burn out the day
Burn out the night
I can't see no reason to put up a fight
I'm living for giving the devil his due.

The full moon shines bright over the Belle La Roux Estate; a sprawling antebellum mansion on twenty acres of ornate gardens and perfectly manicured lawn. Surrounded on three sides by saw palmetto, mangroves with Spanish moss dropping from every branch, and salty marsh water, the estate is inaccessible from land and too dangerous to reach by wading. Alligators prowl the perimeter like watchdogs, long accustomed to regular feedings by the occupants of the old house.

But there are hunters far more dangerous out tonight.

Within, the manor house is a bustle of activity. Figures clad in hooded robes hurry toward a central chamber, broad and spacious, with antique hardwood floors stained a suspicious reddish-brown. Once, it had been a grand ballroom, turned to a more sinister purpose in the hundred years since the Covenant had bought it to serve as a covenstead.

In the center of the floor, a pentagram dominates, surrounded by other mystical sigils at each the five points of the star. Tall black candles flicker in bronze holders arranged in a ring beyond the inner circle. Strong incense burns in braziers situated in the corners, obscuring the room in hazy smoke. In the middle of the pentagram, suspended by chains from the ceiling, a man and a woman are bound, nude, over a silver basin marked with obscure runes.

Elsewhere in the house, as the acolytes prepare for the ceremony, John Rabid expertly picks the lock of a side door. He and Bonnie Blue slip inside, unnoticed. Carefully, Bonnie creeps up behind a lagging acolyte, knocking him unconscious with an elbow to the skull. Rabid grabs another, taking him down with a sleeper hold. After snatching the cowled robes, the Serpent dispatches their victims with stakes of white ashwood. The bodies disintegrate in seconds, leaving behind small piles of dust.

Dressed now in the stolen ceremonial garb, Blue and Rabid hurry to join the procession marching solemnly on, and take their places around the circle. A priest, dressed in robes hemmed in silver, moves to stand before the sacrificial victims and begins to intone an ancient incantation. A phrase is picked up by the others, chanting in rhythmic unison, while the trembling pair of lovers in the center grow more frightened.

With a flash of steel, a dagger appears in the priest's hand. It's the moment they've been waiting for. The Serpent nudges his lover with an elbow, and in an instant, she sheds the robe and springs into action. Confusion reigns for an instant, as Bonnie Blue plunges a dagger of her own into the heart of the acolyte at her side; while simultaneously, John Rabid closes the gap between himself and the leader of the ceremony. Then the dance begins, a deadly whirl of shining blades, as Bonnie and Rabid bring an unexpected fight into the Covenant sanctum.

The fight is hardly one-sided. The acolytes fight back, but none of them have the training to fend off assaults from two veteran combatants. In seconds, the fight is over. Bodies litter the floor, dark blood seeping into the stained wood. A few had managed to flee in the chaos, but Rabid seems unconcerned, his attention occupied with the master of the coven. Meanwhile, Bonnie sets free the intended victims, handing them a couple of robes, with instructions to leave. She can feel the bloodlust, aroused in the melee, and doesn't dare risk slaking it. Not when tomorrow night promises a more satisfying feast.

The onset of the eclipse turns the moon the color of blood as Bonnie Blue and John Rabid walk, hand in hand, away from the estate, leaving it to fate and to flame.