The Secret Life of Vincent Augustine

[Bonnie Blue]

The Secret Life of Vincent Augustine

Part I:
#U N W O K E

It's not your fault, Vincent.

Not really.

Expecting better of you would be like expecting Sam McPherson to learn actual words; or James Wolf to stop being a delusional twit; or Noble Savage to grow a conscience. It's just not in the natural order of things.

A glimmer of light flares into a bright spot, shining down from overhead to illuminate the solitary figure of Bonnie Blue, perched on a turnbuckle. Her dress is casual: sweatpants with the phrase “Neon Dragons” in retro cursive script down one leg, and a “Superkick Uncensored” t-shirt; in sharp contrast to the haughty, regal bearing as befits a Hardcore Queen.

Y'know, when John Rabid kept on saying I'd killed ya, I thought maybe he just had you confused with Jackson Caine, ‘cause it's awful damn hard to tell one mediocre talent from the next. But now it occurs to me that he was experiencing some kinda flash-forward effect. Making a prophecy.

Cause here we are, Vinny -- about to come face-to-face for the very first time -- and I ain’t seeing any other way this ends, ‘cept with you in a bodybag.

The sad part, for you anyway, is that nobody will even notice.

The young goddess shakes her head in mock pity.

See, I know ya got this image built up in your head. You think you're some big, bad “Company” man, deep cover assassin, or maybe a Jason Bourne style sleeper agent. But I've seen your file, Vinny, and I know all about you.

The very same qualities that got you burned in the first place ain't serving you well in the ring, neither. You got no analytical skill. You can't adapt. Hell, you don't even make an impression -- you're a non-entity. Ya may as well not even exist.

You speak of misdirection and pretend you're above it all, but you'll fall for anything, subterfuge notwithstanding. At best, you're a patsy; a fall guy; someone to take the blame while your own “Agency” disavows you.

Which is all a perfect parallel to your wrestling career.

Bonnie slips down from her perch on the turnbuckle, all serpentine grace as she paces across the canvas.

You lack more than an oversimplified understanding of your opponents. Instead of studying your adversary, you spend your time constructing elaborate anecdotes that bear only superficial resemblance to your opponent, with no actual depth.

Case in point: last week you attempted -- poorly -- to draw a comparison between John Rabid and some child trafficker you used to know. Of all the things that can be said about John Rabid -- and I should know; I composed an entire dossier on him myself -- you chose the least accurate characterization, but never once even mentioned any of his multiple title reigns, or his infrequent, but significant, in-ring failures?

No wonder the CIA cut you loose. You're terrible at this.

Worse, is your unfounded conceit that we all perceive you as some young, starry-eyed dreamer; or whatever point you were trying to make in one of your previous schizoid episodes. You're wrong, Vinny.

No one perceives you as anything. At all.

You're unimpressive. A complete nobody. You show up for your match week after week, and that's all the impression you leave: that you were there. And then we all move on.

That may be the hallmark of a competent spy -- you're far from that, too -- but not of a wrestler. We're not supposed to be mewling, apologetic, unobtrusive sycophants; although that seems to be your favorite kind of person to associate with. But I digress….

Ask anyone who Vincent Augustine is, and you'll be met with a blank stare and a shrug. You're nothing. You have no personality, no shtick, not one single detail that stands out in the slightest. Which may be the only reason Jayson Price carried your lame ass through this tournament without cutting you loose like everyone else ever forced to associate with you has. Having you standing next to him made him look like a whole person by comparison, instead of the guy who lived inside a vagina for a month, and then got ripped off for everything he was worth.

I mean, at least he accomplished something in his career. “Mr. Every Title” isn't just a meaningless phrase he attributed himself. Unlike you, the man actually has in ring talent and once had a personality that didn't revolve around a bottle.

But you? You're so lame, so insipid, so thoroughly uninspiring… that I'm drawing a complete blank here. How much more is there to say about a man who's been part of this company for over a year and has failed to accomplish anything? Shit, you don't even have enemies.

Y'know why John didn't end you last week, Vinny?

‘Cause he didn't care enough. You're not even a blip on his radar. You were a minor annoyance, a fly he couldn't be bothered to swat. I mean, even Kennedy Matthews, the traitorous little bitch, got under his skin just enough for him to spare her a single thought of ill intent. You don't even warrant that.

But don't worry, Vinny. That's an oversight I intend to correct.

Crimson lips part in a viperous smile; sharp fangs gleam under the spotlight.

This ain't personal. Clearly, ‘cause you ain't pissed me off, and probably couldn't if ya tried. This is more a matter of cleaning house.

You're a chore, Vinny. A necessary task, and one that I won't even take much pride in. I'm not gonna get a sense of accomplishment when I bodybag you. You're just an item checked off my list. Another victim of #WrestlingGenocide.

But at least this way, you'll finally be remembered for something: my last stepping stone on the way to reclaiming my World Title.

That said, Bonnie Blue lifts her hand, two fingers upraised in a backward peace sign, and the light shuts off, cloaking everything in darkness and silence once again.

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

Part II:
Burn After Reading

Langley, Virginia
16 February 2019
0300 Hours

Flashlight beams weave back and forth in the pitch black of a basement archive, as two figures in tactical gear search the aisles of filing cabinets. They’d already gone through the “A” drawers of current operatives, discharged operatives, and active assets, all to no avail. Bonnie was beginning to despair that she would have to sit through hours of in ring footage, or worse: actually watch an entire Vincent Augustine promo -- when a sharp hiss and an urgent stage-whisper brings her back to the present.

“Over here! I think I've found what we're looking for.”

Bonnie Blue quietly shuts the drawer in front of her and hurries to join her partner in crime. John Rabid points to a stack of errant files destined for the shredder. The tab on one clearly reads “AUGUSTINE, V” and is rubber-stamped all over with the words “UNFIT FOR SERVICE.”

“Oh, that's definitely it. I bet his WCF file is identical to this, too.”

The young goddess snatches the folder and flips through it. Resume. Background check. Lots of stuff there. Glossy black and white eight-by-tens that show Vincent going about his daily business; apparently meeting with someone at a Starbucks, the other man's face circled in red ink with a question mark beside it; a trip to the bank, a stop at a dry cleaner, a quick grocery run at a corner market; even several shots of Augustine in the gym. All of it entirely innocuous.

“Could this dude be any less interesting? Honestly, what am I supposed to do with this? The most sinister thing about Vincent Augustine is a handful of unpaid parking tickets. He's not exactly undercover agent material. He's certainly not the stone cold, government-trained, remorseless killing machine he makes himself out to be.”

Rabid gives the file a once-over, then points at a sheet of paper behind the photos.

“Check his psych profile.”

“Oh, well, this is slightly more interesting….”

================================

Psychological Evaluation of Operative Candidate
Sensitive Information
* CLASSIFIED *

Name: Augustine, Vincent

D.O.B: *REDACTED*

SSN#: *REDACTED*

Reason for evaluation: Pre-employment assessment

Notes: On first impression, Vincent is bright and imaginative, if somewhat reserved and somber. Further interviewing reveals a tendency toward paranoia and delusional fantasy.

Mr. Augustine believes himself possessed of abilities and skills that he demonstrably lacks, including: covert tactics, hand-to-hand combat techniques, interrogation resistance, in-ring wrestling skills, and a discernible persona.

Mr. Augustine further illustrates a delusional fantasy that he is a trained assassin with amnesiac tendencies induced by deep cover conditioning. He simultaneously persists in an elaborately detailed imagining of himself as a successful professional wrestler of exceptional skill -- possibly owing to his “covert training” -- when he is, in actuality, a middling talent on his best night; and certainly no match for a current World Title contender and former champion like Bonnie Blue.

Conclusion: Delusional fantacist, subject to frequent schizoid breaks; behaviorally a sociopath, lacking impulse control. No real-world skills or experience. Subject to inventing hypothetical scenarios with no relevance. Extreme disconnect from reality.

Further processing NOT recommended.

================================

“Well, that was timely and informative.”

Bonnie looks up at John Rabid, a wry smile on her lips as he gives her a wink.

“Isn't it, though?”

His smile is vaguely suggestive, but before she can respond in kind, a shout from beyond the door alerts the pair that their intrusion has been detected.

“Sounds like our cue to leave!”

The Time Witch extends her left hand, concentrates, and a shimmering of silvery-blue appears before her -- then dissipates in a shower of sparks. With a puzzled frown, she tries again; and again, her transtemporal portal fades to nothing. The Serpent makes his own attempt: with a snap of his fingers, a crimson streak of light cleaves the air -- and vanishes almost immediately. A worried glance passes between the pair.

“Temporal interference generator,” Bonnie tells him. “They've been working on one ever since #1he_wav3. Now it looks like they've perfected it.”

Rabid scowls, his mind already turning over the possibilities. They’d been made, no doubt about it, but even the CIA doesn't have this particular technology; not yet. As a matter of fact, only one organization on Earth had the resources and knowledge to put something like that together, and he told her so.

“So that means…”

“...the Covenant. Yes.”

“We'll have to fight our way out.”

“No. First, we find that machine -- and destroy it.”

The file room obligingly provides them the fuel to create a smoky blaze that covers their exit into the air duct. Fifteen minutes go by before anyone can access the room; it takes another three for someone to figure out how they'd escaped. An eighteen minute head start gives Bonnie Blue and John Rabid all the advantage they need. While CIA agents and Covenant operatives swarm the interior of the building, the two are already outside and prowling the edges of the perimeter established by SWAT. Rabid gives a slight tug on the telepathic bond he shares with Bonnie, and when he has her attention, nods toward an armored van with a parabolic dish on top.

The Serpentine smiles a predatory smile and gives him a wink as she disappears among a line of cops in riot gear. She returns moments later with a brick of C4 and a radio frequency detonator. Together, the two of them pry open the back of the van, where a lone operator waits within. Bonnie drags him out and somewhere behind another vehicle, where the sounds of a struggle ensue.

Meanwhile, Rabid stashes the explosive where it won't be noticed, shoves the detonator in, and exits the van in time to catch up with Bonnie as she wipes a trickle of blood from her lips.

“Ready?” he asks.

The young goddess nods and extends her left hand in preparation. As the Serpent activates the detonator, the van erupts in a massive orange fireball; quickly contained in a spherical ball of golden lighting that closes around the van in an ever-tightening radius, until, with a small *pop*, the whole thing simply vanishes. At the same time, a silvery-blue portal opens up, revealing the interior of Rabid’s country estate, and the two step through to safety.