Why I Fight

[Bonnie Blue]

Why I Fight
Part I: The Devil Inside

Here come the woman
With the look in her eye;
Raised on leather
With flesh on her mind.

Words as weapons,
Sharper than knives;
Makes you wonder how the other half die
How the other half die.


(INXS -- Devil Inside)

Sweat rolls along the crease of a furrowed brow, down the delicate line of her nose, to splash against the concrete floor, where it evaporates slowly. Bonnie Blue finishes her last set of squats, pink-faced and panting with exertion as she replaces the bar in its stand. The steel legs wobble under the weight, but steady after an indecisive moment. The young goddess snatches a folded towel from a nearby stack and dabs the perspiration from her face and neck.

D'ya ever wonder why we do this? Why we go out there week after week, putting our bodies on the line for the sake of entertainment?

Is that all it is?

Is it the glamour and the fame? Bright lights and camera flashes?

The fans, the paychecks… the women?

Is it just to see who's the best?

The Time Witch takes a sip from a water bottle, a contemplative expression on her face.

It might be any of those things -- or all of ‘em -- depending who you ask.

But those fat paychecks eventually run out.

The lights fade. Fans lose interest.

Titles come and go.

But glory, forged in blood -- that's forever.

I tried to get that message across before, and y'know what happened?

Well, I stomped the shit outta Kennedy Matthews is what happened; but she didn't learn. Her type never do. She just rode on that Hardcore strap until it was time to renegotiate her contract, made some kinda ridiculous demands -- all to give herself an excuse to haul ass somewhere the competition ain't as fierce. That wasn't what any of us wanted to see.

A real champion rises to a challenge.

A paper champion runs away.

It's a fundamental lack of discipline, and there's too damn much of that going around. Take Wolfie, for example. Dude runs his mouth without a clue what he's yapping about, then backs right down the second anybody counters him. And he thinks insisting he ain't interested is a valid tactic.

No discipline. No self control. And that's why a dude like him ain't never gonna be champion. Not a Hardcore Champ, not a Tag Champ, and damn sure never a World Champ.

Not like you, Draven.

For the first time, Bonnie makes eye contact with her presumed audience. Sea-blue glitters under the harsh white fluorescent light of the gym. Lips quirk in a half-smile, a flash of sharp ivory fangs behind pale pink.

Of course, them tag straps ain't carrying quite as much weight as they used to. Certainly not like when me and Dave Sanchez had ‘em. Now there was a guy who didn't understand discipline unless it involved restraints and a leather flogger. Oh, he had it, for a minute. Rehab was good for him, but it didn't take. Not that time. And when his self control started to slip, when he started making mistakes, that's when ol’ Thievin’ Stephen took advantage. Even then, it took all three members of the Church to successfully pry them Tag Titles away from Civil Disobedience.

That's the kinda prestige those tag straps used to have. There kind of prestige that made former and future World Champions alike fight tooth and claw for ‘em.

Now… now they're more like a consolation prize, but that can hardly be blamed on you, Matt. Or even on your partner, when ya come right down to it.

Nah. The sole responsibility for the complete degradation of the WCF Tag Titles rests at the feet of Sammy McNugget and “Lord” Raab. From the second they got their greasy fingers on them straps, the value of the tag division plummeted.

“Monstimals.” Honestly, what the fuck kinda name is that for a tag team? I mean, if you're eight years old and still watching Sesame Street, that might come off as clever wordplay; but ya probably also still can't tie your own shoes and gotta wear a helmet in pubic.

But you got a chance here, Matt. A real opportunity to do something. Yeah, granted, the tag belts are technically retired, depending on the outcome of the tournament. So… how come y'ain't promoting the fuck outta that division?

How come y'ain't pushing the fact that you're one half of the last and only undefeated tag team in WCF?

How come y'ain't challenging any and all teams to try their luck at prying them straps outta your hands?

How come that devil inside ain't trying to claw its way out and propel you to the very top of this company?

She raises a quizzical eyebrow.

I mean, let's face it: sure, you got more wins than losses, and ya just happen to be the guy who liberated the tag straps from Edwina What's-Her-Name and Estrella “Pinky Pie” Luiz… but aside from that, sugar, there just ain't a lot to say.

It's like you're just drifting from town to town, match to match. You come out to a round of polite applause because nobody knows who y'are, Matt. They hear “Matt Draven” and wonder vaguely if you're that guy from The Crow.

Because “vague” is the best you got, Matt.

You talk all this shit when Hank Brown puts a mic in your face, then you get in the ring and you fail to live up to a damn word of any of it. Sure, you're the undisputed King of Meme all over Twitter; but between those ropes, you got all the charisma of a used condom, and only about half the motivation.

I'm not sure if ya don't know what you're doing or just don't care -- but either way, it's a slap in the face to those of us who do. I go out there week after week, and I make a goddess-damned impression: usually my boot sole on somebody's face. Them fans may boo when they see me, but at least it's a reaction!

Every time I step between those ropes, I face a test -- of endurance, of will, and of self-discipline.

We all have our devils within, Matt. And every time that bell rings, we make a choice: survive or succumb. Win -- but at what cost?

I gave up humanity to transcend what I was; to become something greater; to achieve my highest potential. But there is a price to be paid for every victory, Matt Draven, and that price is blood.

Blood. Toil. Tears. And sweat.

It's a toll you may not be prepared to pay; but the choice is out of your hands. Your time… is up.

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

Why I Fight:
Part II: Sharper Than Knives

Here come the man with the look in his eye.
Fed on nothing, but full of pride;
Look at them go, look at them kick
Makes you wonder how the other half live.

"You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory. Victory at all costs—Victory in spite of all terror—Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival."

Applause thundered through the House of Commons as Winston Churchill gave that famous and rousing speech on the Fourteenth of May, in 1940, just months before Germany would launch the infamous and ill-fated Blitz. Among the observers, a pair not out of place, but out of Time: John Rabid and Bonnie Blue stood unobtrusively at the back of the room, attention rapt on the charismatic Churchill as his final words were swallowed in the crowd’s reaction.

Taking her by the arm, Rabid steered Bonnie out of the building, a satisfied expression written across his features. His ability to pinpoint specific points in the timeline was improving; although they had to be cautious, on the off chance they might run into someone who knew him by sight. He was, after all, supposed to be on the mainland somewhere, engaged in battle with German forces.

“I'd always regretted having missed the opportunity to hear him speak firsthand,” Rabid was telling her as they strode across the street.

Bonnie looked up at her lover. There was something different about him, ever since the night he'd sired her; a lightness in his step, a renewed sense of -- something; she couldn't quite put a finger on it. He wasn't all rainbows and kittens, far from it. He was still the John Rabid/Jason Rush she had first loathed, yet come to love. But the constant boiling rage had cooled to a slow simmer; he hadn't lost his edge, but there was something kinder in him, at least as far as Bonnie Blue was concerned.

There were scores still to be settled, debts that would be paid in suffering and agony -- and deservedly so -- but all in due time. Today was about something else entirely, and Bonnie was content to have him to herself for now.

“Victory at all costs,” she repeated. “Victory however long and hard the road may be… Y'know, that's the problem in WCF today. Nobody feels an obligation to win. I mean, a few, yeah. When there's gold up for grabs, sure. But always the easy road. Like Savage pinning Alex to steal my title. Somehow, I'd be less insulted if it had been the other way around. At least Alex Richards respects me as a competitor. All Savage ever saw was someone she thought she could twist into a reflection of herself. Just like she keeps accusing you of doing.”

“Don't forget how I brainwashed you,” Rabid said dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, right. Totally pulling my strings, because… something about relevance. Her logic is hard to follow.”

Rabid shrugged.

“That's because there isn't any.”

“Not that it matters, Savage ain't my problem this week. Matt Draven is.”

“That guy from The Crow?”

Bonnie giggled as John Rabid gave her a wry smirk.

“I wish. At least he'd put up a fight. This Draven, I'm not so sure. He wants to win only ‘cause the alternative is losin’. That ain’t enough. That's the attitude that allowed James Wolf to hand him his first loss. The attitude that failed to inspire him enough to take the TV Title away from Teo Del Sol. The only reason he's still got his tag title is the fact that there's no tag team division. It's hardly worth showing up for.”

“All the more reason to destroy him,” Rabid pointed out. “If he has so little respect for himself, for the ring, for the company, or for the fans -- then he deserves nothing less than to be made an example of. Matt Draven, relegated to some forgotten archive, and #WrestlingGenocide claims another victim.”

With a mischievous smirk of her own, the Serpentine kissed her lover on the cheek.

“You're right. No point delaying the inevitable,” she agreed, and raised her left hand, preparing to create the breach in spacetime that would return the pair to the present.

“Allow me,” Rabid said.

With a snap of his fingers, a jagged red line zig-zagged vertically before them and widened into a portal, edged in swirling gray smoke. Bonnie twined her fingers with his, and as one, they stepped through --

-- into chaos.

Air raid sirens pierced the frigid November night. Planes roared overhead, while civilians fled in every direction. The pavement beneath their feet trembled as bombs dropped from the sky. Bonnie pulled Rabid to the relative safety of a doorway, where they took a moment to collect themselves.

A moment, however, was all they got. A detonation in the street knocked them to the ground and sent debris raining down everywhere. Rabid was back to his feet first, and moving with inhuman speed -- not to Bonnie, who was already dusting herself off, but toward a mother with two small children, all staring in shock at the sky. Bonnie charged forward to help, catching an iron streetlamp before it flattened the baby carriage. Quickly, she lifted the baby out, cradling him against her chest as she took hold of the young mother's arm and propelled her out of the way. With Rabid ushering the small family on, they hurried across the road and down a narrow alley. He kicked in a door, leading them inside and down a set of stone steps into what turned out to be a wine cellar.

Once safely settled in, Bonnie handed the baby back to his mother, her sea-blue eyes betraying only a hint of longing. She shook it off as she crossed the cellar to John Rabid’s side as the shelling continued above. He looked up, troubled.

“I don't get it. What happened?”

“It's the bombs,” Bonnie answered quietly. “Sometimes they can cause temporal interference. We'll have to wait it out.”

“Hmmm.”

The Serpent turned his attention to a shelf full of dusty bottles, finally selecting one with a yellowed label. Bonnie found glasses and a corkscrew, while the mother and her children suddenly found themselves irresistibly sleepy. Rabid poured the deep red from Italy and handed a glass to Bonnie. As explosions rocked the city, Bonnie Blue and John Rabid passed the night in each other's arms; drinking, talking, and making love to the rumble of English anti-aircraft guns.