In Good Company

[Bonnie Blue]

In Good Company
Part I: Orientation

A blue screen displays the letters “VCR” in the upper right corner. With a click and the whir of winding gears, past their prime, static takes over the screen. Cheesy muzak plays a distorted rendition of Billy Joel's “Big Shot”, sounding as if the speakers had been submerged underwater, as a horizontal line scrolls lazily up to obscure the opening shot. The word “TRACKING” flashes onto the screen, until slowly, both picture and sound are corrected.

Against the backdrop of a labyrinthine maze of cubicles, surrounded on three sides by glass walls, Bonnie Blue walks into the frame, dressed in her ring gear: a black singlet with a subtle scale pattern in iridescent violet and emerald, with black lace trim. Over the singlet, she wears a long jacket in deep aquamarine to match the color of her blue-blonde hair. The muzak, thankfully, fades as Bonnie Blue beams at the camera, the double pair of fangs -- one set just slightly longer -- prominent and clear, even in the grainy video image.

Ya done good last week, Roy. Real damn good. But what else should I expect from a man who was the first-ever world champ at… that other place, and a former WCF World Champ, too? You stood where I had fallen; you dropped that psychopathic Kerouac wannabe -- Mikey X -- in his prime.

I put him down once, couple years back; but when the rematch finally came, I underestimated him and had all my focus on Singh. Of course, this time Fate paired him with Jaice Wilds, so you didn't have that particular stumbling block. I mean it's obvious who the weak link is there. As Guardians go, Jaice is the Plastic Man to our Justice League; we keep him around for the inappropriate humor, but he's mostly only useful as a human trampoline.

But I digress -- a habit that seems to be just one of the genetic gifts my daddy gave me, in addition to all this abundance of wrestling skill. You know all about that, though. That said, Johnny Reb is the past; Bonnie Blue is the here and now, and I wanted to take a moment to welcome you to the illustrious company you find yourself in.

Not that you ain't illustrious in y’own regard, of course, just that so many fail to recognize greatness when it manifests itself.

That's something you and me got in common. Getting overlooked, passed by, stepped over; in spite of an in ring presence second to none, overwhelming charisma, memorable feuds, and talent that puts damn near everybody else on any roster to shame. Yeah, believe me, Roy, I was right there with ya last week when you was talking about how Seth Lerch wasted your talent; how Corey Black never respected ya enough to give ya the opportunities you deserved, and for just that little while, I didn't feel quite so alone.

For just that moment, I felt like, if you could overcome all that same shit I find myself going through now, then maybe so can I. Maybe there's hope for Bonnie Blue to recapture that World Title after all. Especially once me and John got through with poor, delusional little Noble Savage that night back in Florida two weeks ago.

Now, I ain't got no particular beef with you, Roy -- except how you forgot ya promised to show me a little trick to upgrade that Weeping Angel mat slam, to make it all the more spectacular. I seem to recall we talked about working more closely together at one point, but that was before Torture and Gravedigger decided there wasn't a place for Bonnie Blue at … that other company.

Oh, sure, they'll argue how they “gave” me the UCI title as a consolation prize -- a title that never shoulda been in their possession in the first place; a title that Spencer Adams made a mockery of by putting it on his own waist when he couldn't earn a title by himself, then added insult to injury by promptly losing it to some racist fuckhead who literally pissed all over my legacy -- OUR legacy: everyone who ever held or fought for that belt in UCI! Then to make it so much worse, they forced me to defend against a “mystery opponent” who turned out to be some sad imitation of Preecha Kamon. Not even the real guy, who I know was off getting his head together in Tibet or somewhere, but some second rate extra from a John Woo film.

And see, hon, that's the company you want to rep here in the Dub. That's where ya done made your mistake. You already said this company ain't your priority, and the next opponent you run up against is gonna eat you alive, that bein’ the case.

That's where I come in. You can't be walking into these matches blind, ‘cause you're too busy trying to get Tort and Digger to give you the recognition you deserve. And, spoiler alert: never gonna happen. Just like Seth with guys like Franky Venable, or your old nemesis Donald Deruty, them boys got their favorites. Favorites like Sid Warwick. Let's face facts, Roy: you got screwed outta that World Title so hard it might as well have happened in Montreal.

But ya girl Bonnie is looking out for ya now. I'm here to shake ya up, get ya outta that comfort zone, and remind you what kinda nightmare Hellscape WCF is and always has been. You look around and see the wasteland, empty of the monsters like Oblivion, the power void left by the absence of Pantheon or #beachkrew, and even the Guardians in disarray; but y'ain't seeing the new threats rising in their place. Them shitheel Monstimals ain't much to look at, less to listen to, but together, they almost make one whole Oblivion. Jay Omega's making his “triumphant return” to pick the bones of a division that died the minute I lost the Hardcore Title, and everybody else lost interest.

But what you're really missing is the opportunity right in front of you. You see part, but you ain't seeing the big picture. You got the right idea: taking this tournament with John Rabid at your side is gonna put you closer to where ya wanna be. But Roy, you're talking about picking up scraps, when the three of us are positioned to be royalty!

Follow my lead, and we'll get you there, Roy. Right at the top: you, me -- with that World Title around my waist again, where it belongs -- and John Rabid, with his guiding hand on the tiller. And those are just the first steps on a path to something altogether greater!

So, Roy, I'd say let's go out there and give it everything we've got, but you and I both know how that's gonna end, and I won't jeopardize John's inevitable victory in this tag tournament by slaughtering you in the ring. So instead, I suggest we just halfass it -- because you and me halfassing is better than everyone else's one-hundred percent anyway!

With a sly grin, Bonnie Blue winks at the camera just as the tape ends and dissolves back into static.

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

In Good Company
Part II: Assimilation

Nine O’Clock on a Sunday night and the Atlas Tap House near the Myrtle Beach coastline is quietly active. Most of the patrons are regulars, here to watch The Game on the bar's massive seventy inch Vizio LED. The occasional cheer goes up from a crowd firmly any time the Rams do anything moderately interesting. From one end of the bar, Bonnie Blue scans the crowd, overlooking the customers clustered near the television, her sea-blue eyes drawn to a solitary figure who approaches her with a nervous shuffle. Smiling in welcome, she pats the barstool next to her, as if summoning a skittish dog.

“Heya, Hank,” she says, with an emphasis on her Southern drawl. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah, well...” replies the veteran WCF journalist, rubbing at the back of his neck as he takes the indicated seat. “Been a while since you had time for an interview.”

“Reckon it has, Hank.”

She gestures to the bartender, pointing at her own half-drunk glass of dark, frothy brew, and holding up two fingers to order another round. Hank clears his throat and adjusts his tie.

“So… you and John Rabid… that's -- unexpected.”

“Came as a shock to me, too, Hank. I never in a million years woulda guessed -- turns out there's a lot of chemistry between us. Whatcha gonna do? Ain't no denying it.”

“Didn't he try to kill you once?”

“Oh, don't be silly, Hank. If he'd been trying, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. That whole thing was more of a -- a warning. We got past it.”

“So it seems. Last week, he kinda outed himself, as a v--” Hank bites back the word, unable to say it even now.

All he can think of is the sharp crack of glass; fire in his mouth as a thousand shards pierce his tongue, his lips, his gums; the salty-copper taste of his own blood. He shakes his head to dispel the memory, and with trembling hands, picks up the beer in front of him. Bonnie eyes Hank with something midway between amusement and pity.

“It's all right, Hank. You ain't gotta say it: we all know. Anybody paying attention always knew. Y’ain't gotta ask if I am, too. I reckon that's pretty obvious. But you are fixing to ask if I regret it -- and the answer, Hank, is no. Not in the slightest.

I mean, I asked him for this.

Now, was I afraid, at first? You bet your ass I was! There was me, little ol’ Bonnie Blue, ready to submit herself to big, bad John Rabid -- and I honestly didn't know what to expect. Well, I'll spare ya the details anyway, Hank, ‘cause it's right now that counts.

Now, there's folks who's gonna say I threw away my life, turned my back on everything I stood for, and spit in the face of my Guardians -- but those people are melodramatic assholes wanting to involve themselves where they ain't wanted; and as to my Guardians, well… who was it that decided it was over? That I couldn't play no more just cause I'm… different now?

All right, so I bailed on the big victory party the night I took the World Title. That was my bad. Honestly, I got caught up, lost track of time -- but disbanding the Guardians was never my intent. Always did suspect something was off about Noble Savage, though. Got that all out in the open. But other than that, I never wanted to break up the faction. That's all on Alex Richards.

I know, Hank you -- and all them fans in the WCF Galaxy -- y'all want me to say I'm having second thoughts. That I regret what I've become. But that would be a lie. Look at me, Hank!

I'm the goddess I always told y'all I was, only now it ain't just a figure of speech. And it's just a matter of time before I take back what's rightfully mine, Hank, mark my words: that WCF World Title is coming back home to Bonnie Blue, where it belongs.”

“You've got to get through Roy Speede this week, though,” Hank points out. “He's a veteran of the ring, a WCF and AW champion, and he's got years of experience on you.”

“That's all true, Hank, and why a clash between the #DeepBlueSea and the Silver Lining is gonna be so damn electrifying! He's a multiple time champion -- but so am I. Hardcore, Tag, and World Titles, all taken in the last eight months in WCF; not to mention the fact that I held dual championships twice at UCI, was the longest reigning Intercontinental Champ, longest reigning Tag Champ, took the World Championship off Kevin Bishop, and led an entire faction to multiple victories and titles. When it comes to experience, Roy Speede may have the years, but I got the track record of proven success.”

“Except last week, when newcomer Robert Simmons got a surprise rollup victory over you.”

A scowl darkens Bonnie's face for an instant, but is gone the next, like a passing cloud.

“Y'know what they say, Hank. Shit happens. I ain't gonna cry about it or call it a fluke. I underestimated him ‘cause he was new, hadn't seen his work. Not a mistake that will be repeated, believe that. Nah, the ‘Stone Crow’ had his moment, and I'm big enough to allow him that without trying to shit all over it. I'm not Odin Balfore. Besides, ya girl got bigger fish to fry. Roy Speede this week, and soon enough, I'm fixing to get my hands on Noble Savage, take back MY World Title, and pay her back for stealing it the way she did. And after that, well…. let's just say me and John got plans of our own. Now, if you'll excuse me, Hank…”

Wise enough to know when he's being dismissed, Hank Brown downs the rest of his brew, gives Bonnie a nod of thanks, and leaves the bar before she changes her mind. The scene fades as the Time Witch settles her tab with a handful of large bills tossed on the bar as she follows Hank out into the chill night.