#WrestlingGenocide

[Bonnie Blue]

#WrestlingGenocide
Part I: Tomb of the Unknown Wrestler

On a cold, clear Saturday night, stars pierce the veil of city light; a waning moon reflecting bright off a sprawling assortment of grey and white. Tombstones stand proud and tall in the foreground; fallen in disarray beyond -- the older colonial and civil war sections of Columbus, Georgia's Riverdale Cemetery. Frost glitters on the grass beneath the moonglow as a white mist rolls in from the namesake river. Soft footsteps crunch through the lawn as Bonnie Blue comes into view, wearing a heavy winter cape with a fur-trimmed hood.

She stops before a crypt of gleaming marble, roughly twelve feet long, eight feet wide, and standing at a height of eleven feet. Casting the light from a lantern over the inscription, the Serpentine reads it aloud:

“Here lies, in forgotten obscurity, an American wrestler known not even to God.”

A wicked smile pricks at crimson lips, the hint of fangs glinting in the lamp-light.

A glimpse into your future, Mr. Simmons. Now, don't get me wrong; I appreciate what you're trying to accomplish here: trying to overcome the stigma of your legitimate… disadvantage -- a task made all the more Sisyphean by the fact that you've got to contend with the PR damage already done by that human ashtray, Sammy Not-Dune, and his mockery of the entire spectrum as a whole. How he ain't been sued over his misrepresentation, every bit as damaging as a blackface minstrel-show, I'll never understand. But then again, he ain’t my problem this week.

You're not really, either, Simmons. Less a problem, more a speed bump -- just with slightly less personality. I mean, you can't argue that point. You were replaced by a literal robot last week, and nobody in the back noticed. You come to the Dub with no real accomplishments to your name, and you'll leave the same way. If anyone remembers you at all, it'll be as just another in the growing list of victims of Bonnie Blue.

You're a quota-filler, Mr. Simmons; an affirmative action hire, because we don't have enough of the “differently abled” on the roster, despite my best efforts. I mean, I put Stephen Singh on crutches for two months; I knocked Odin Balfore around so hard he's gotta legally qualify as an imbecile at this point; Noble Savage was already a spaz to begin with, but after last week -- well, you get the idea, I'm sure. Point is, since Corey Black doesn't seem interested in hiring persons of color, he instead employs people who would otherwise only succeed in a circus sideshow. That's how come you still got a contract after falling to make your debut last week.

Now, you're probably looking at this as your second chance, and if you was facing anybody else, it might be.

You could have had a long, history-making run through the ranks of the undercard, knocking off chumps like DJ Jazzy John and Memelord Matt Draven; taking justifiable vengeance on Sammy “Baked Beans” McPherson, the poster child of the anti-vaxx movement; trashing the interchangeable Scott Slayer, Jimmy “the Jobber” Wolf, or Edwina “Who the Fuck is That?” Lockheart.

You might have gone on to break the spirit of that prancing pony Twilight Sparkle -- sorry, I mean, Estrella Luiz; maybe drop Kennedy Matthews and take that Hardcore Title for yourself. They all been enjoying the benefits of my labor with that belt. As a point of interest, the Hardcore belt used to be the last stop before the unemployment line -- right up until I got my hands on it, and reinvigorated the entire division, all on my lonesome.

I gave the Hardcore Championship prestige again; made it worth fighting for, made it really mean something. Not like Leon Hayze, who just used it to roll blunts; nor like Kennedy Matthews, who flashes it whenever she wants somebody to think she's someone important -- like Bonnie Blue. In fact, she's spent so much of her time trying to emulate everything I do, now she thinks she can be a Guardian by getting into Jaice Wilds’ pants. Only thing “X-treme” about him is that raging case of the clap he's giving her for Valentine's day.

So, yeah, I'd maybe get that Hardcore strap disinfected before I touched it.

From there, my dude, you coulda, eventually been on the level of someone like Teddy Blaze -- a nice little TV Title run -- or Vincent Augustine; I think that's a guy, but he ain't done much of any significance, so it's hard to remember.

Coulda.

Woulda.

If only you hadn't had the misfortune to find yourself standing across the ring from Bonnie Blue.

Such a promising career -- I assume -- ending before it ever even got started. I'd like to tell ya that I'll be kind; that we got no beef, so when we step into that ring, in front of them thousands of fans at the Columbus Civic Center on Monday night,
I'll finish it quick and painless. But I'd be lying if I did, and Sugar, it's just cruelty to lie to a condemned man, to plant false hope while I'm leading ya to the gallows.

Nah. Y'see there's still an example needs to be set.

Still lessons that need to be learned.

Sacrifices to be made. And yours is but the first of many.

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

#WrestlingGenocide
Part II: Clemency

22 January 2019
Somerset, England
The Estate of John Rabid

Firelight reflects off the polished maple floors, highlights the geometric designs of the antique Persian rug, and casts shadows across the face of John Rabid, adding to his already pensive expression. He sits, brooding, in an original Louis XIV armchair of carved wood and upholstered in red and gold silk, purchased at exorbitant expense from the Versailles collection.

At a sideboard, ivory and gilt-edged -- though understated by baroque standards -- Bonnie Blue glances at him as she pours two glasses of wine from a crystal decanter. Not your run-of-the-mill table wine: a Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1945, a deep red Bordeaux blend, grown in the Pauillac region; so singularly unique and in such demand that it carries a price tag of $20,000 for a bottle.

With the graceful stride of a stalking cat, Bonnie moves across the carpet to join her lover, standing behind his chair as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, and kissing his cheek as she hands him a glass. She catches a glimpse of what has his attention: several screenshots, taken from security footage, of a large, bearded man dispatching nightclub patrons with ruthless efficiency, using nothing but wooden stakes. In the final shot, his face is turned toward the camera, middle finger upraised. Bonnie draws in a sharp breath, recognizing him instantly.

“Wade…” she whispers, her face a mask of confusion as she straightens. “What's he doing?”

Jason Rush -- better known to the WCF Galaxy as John Rabid -- glances up at her, just briefly, before turning his gaze back to the images on his iPad.

“Sending a message,” he replies. “It would seem Miss Savage is not the only person driven to homicidal fits of jealousy over us being together.”

“Ain’t really his place to be getting jealous over nothin’, considering how he abandoned me, cheated on me, conned me into helping him fight those Owl Cultists -- then abandoned me again when things got heavy.”

She says it lightly, but the lingering hint of bitterness in her tone isn't lost on the Serpent. He eyes her with something like suspicion as she settles onto a nearby Victorian settee, leaning casually against the raised end. Aquamarine hair cascades over shoulders bared by the strapless bodice of a palazzo-leg jumpsuit; her hand sweeps back the hair, fingers trailing along the side of her neck and down her chest in a conscious effort to entice his interest: a clear indication where her loyalty lies.

“Even so, he's involved himself in Covenant affairs, and he made no secret that he's after me. They'll expect these wrongs to be redressed.”

Bonnie takes a sip, gazing at him over the rim of her glass as she takes a moment to savor the rich, smoky overtones of the wine; the creamy finish, with hints of ripe fruit, exotic spices, and an undertone of coffee. The deep ruby liquid picks up and diffuses the light from the fireplace as she swirls it in the glass.

“Well, first off -- fuck the Covenant. Y'ain't their errand boy. Far as I can tell, Wade's doing half the work for us, weeding out the weak and the indulgent. Matter of fact, we could put the weekend's adventure on his shoulders, and let him carry on. For a little while longer. Maybe even get him to see reason. That kinda muscle on our side might come in handy.”

Rabid tilts his head slightly, stroking his neatly kept beard as he considers. After a moment, he gets up and crosses the expanse of rug to join her, a smile playing across his lips.

“Have I ever told you how sexy it is when you're being devious?”

Holding out a hand, he draws Bonnie to her feet. She giggles at the tickle of his beard as he kisses her neck; and pouts a little when he pulls back to regard her with a more serious expression.

“Just tell me one thing, and be completely honest with me: do you still have feelings for Wade Moor?”

Hesitant, Bonnie looks away, letting her hair cover her face, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She’d been so busy, she hadn't given it much thought, not until now. But at last, she looks up at Jason Rush, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Yes, but most of those feelings are varying degrees of anger. I don't wish him any ill will, but to answer your question more directly -- no, I'm not still in love with him. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

The Serpent smiles at Bonnie, leaning down to kiss her lips.

“Then I think we're on the same page. I'll let Wade get by with this, for now, but the instant he gets too close; the second he puts you or me in danger….”

He trails off, leaving the threat unspoken. Bonnie nods in understanding. There is no going back, not now; not ever.

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

#WrestlingGenocide
Part III: The Problem With Management

From:[e-mail]
To:[e-mail]
CC:
BCC:

Subject:Seriously WTF?

Dear Corey Black:

I know we haven't seen eye to eye on anything since you took over leadership of the WCF, but this is a travesty.

While I appreciate the opportunity to jobber kill some ignorant moron, I strongly object to being put into a match with a legitimate handicapped person, in contravention of all United States laws and basic human decency.

I mean, do you have any clue what I'm going to do to the poor man? It'll make what John and I did to Odin and Savage look like a day at fucking Disneyland. Are you sure you want to go down in WCF history as the only president of a wrestling promotion to routinely endanger the lives of the disabled and disadvantaged? This is a bad look, for all of us.

I get it. It's very courageous of Robert Simmons to overcome his struggles with high-functioning autism and step in the ring with a combatant of equal or -- let's face it -- far superior skills, and blah blah blah, taking a step forward for people like him, et cetera. That's nice, but you could have put him up against literally anybody on this roster. You could've rescheduled his debut against Jeremiah Locke, for that matter.

But you didn't. You put this poor kid in the shark tank, wearing a suit made of meat, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Huh? You want me to just hand him some lackluster win like you paid me to do for Sammy Muffin? Well, fuck that! My dignity is worth more than a handful of Benjamins, and you fucking know it! I was the World Champion, in spite of your best efforts to keep me out of contention -- and I goddess-damned will be again, as soon as I get my rematch.

And this ain't gonna be like that time with that Hardcore strap, where my rematch just fell by the wayside, conveniently forgotten. Or that other time, when my tag title rematch got tossed out the window just because David Sanchez had a meltdown and left the company. Or that other time when Alex Richards and I earned a shot at the tag titles by beating every other tag team on the roster, and then never got it.

You can make all the excuses you want about not being able to keep up with defending them tag straps while being on the hunt for world title gold, but we both know how wreak that is. You know for a fact that I was a dual champion not once, but twice at WCF’s sister company, UCI! I ran them tag titles and that Intercontinental Title -- second only to the World Title -- for months with Alex Richards as my partner, and couldn't nobody touch us! Couldn't touch me!

I was the only three-time tag champion in UCI. One half of the last and only undefeated tag champs in UCI. The only two-time dual champion. And the only wrestler on that whole roster capable of defeating Kevin Bishop -- in a match of his choosing! And that was after the Dethwar, no less!

But you're putting me in some undercard match with a rookie who couldn't even manage to make his own debut a week ago?

A rookie who, on top of that, is “differently abled”. Like your little pet gimp, McNugget. Only this time, I ain't taking a dive, and that's not gonna be a good look for this company.

Not gonna be a good look for Bonnie Blue, neither.

I don't want this reputation as somebody who likes beating down the handicapped. That ain't good for nobody. In fact, if I didn't know better, I might think this is a carefully orchestrated plan to discredit me as a legitimate athlete and get me outta the running for the WCF World Title.

That ain't a road you want to go down with me, Corey. I know you've never liked me, but it's time to put them personal feelings aside in the interest of what's best for the Dub. Noble Savage ain't the face of this company; she can barely hold her shit together day after day. Odin Balfore ain't cut out for leadership anymore, as I have proven to you time and again. Mikey X ain't gonna be the salvation of WCF -- where's he even been all this time? The going gets a little rough and he bails… just to resurface at what he thinks is the opportune moment. Only this ain't it, so that tells you exactly how good his judgement is.

I am the only hope WCF has right now.

I'm gonna drag this company outta the Dark Ages and into the Era of Enlightenment, but to do that, I'm gonna have to cull the herd. Cut away the rot, so this plant can flourish. WCF never quit being great -- but we're about to make it so much better.

And it starts with #WrestlingGenocide.

It already began last week. What me and John Rabid done, that wasn't just for our benefit, but for this company as a whole. And you think you're penalizing me this week, putting me in what might as well be a bathroom break match -- cause we all know how it's fixing to end.

But that ain't the case. This week, #WrestlingGenocide rolls through Columbus, Georgia to claim another victim on Monday Night Slam! And we ain't about to stop there, just you wait and see.

You been warned, Corey. There's a storm brewing, and Bonnie Blue is right at the center of it. This is my time, and I will not be denied.

Good. Day.