Post by Bonnie Blue on Mar 17, 2019 22:16:32 GMT -5
A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing
Part One: All Bark…
Part One: All Bark…
Framed in the center of a cell phone camera image, dressed in black yoga pants and an electric blue halter top, the WCF World Title draped casually over one shoulder; World Champion Bonnie Blue perches on the edge of a weight bench. Mirrors line one wall behind her, reflecting an assortment of top-of-the-line equipment arrayed neatly throughout a spacious private gym, complete with its own wrestling ring. The champ flashes the camera a dazzling smile, her double pair of fangs plainly visible in the bright light.
James Wolf… we meet again. I'd like to say it's a pleasure; that this will be a challenge worthy of a multiple time champion.
But, let's face it, Wolfie -- it's you. I mean, sure, you done real good at WAR. But y'know, considering the competition -- and I use that word generously, under the circumstances -- you woulda had to try real hard to come outta that event looking bad. Y'know, more like you did at Helloween, taking on two high level matches, and failing miserably at both. I mean, you opened and closed the show; that fact alone shoulda been worth some kind of recognition. Except first you lost to Dean Wolf, failing to prove anything aside from what everyone already knew: that you're not the best Wolf. I put you at about number eight on the list, and I'm including Tyler “the Space Werewolf” Walker at number seven, so… yeah.
Oh but the failures don't stop there. Nah, you still didn't realize you'd bitten off more than you could chew, joining up with Odin Balfore in that Hellimination match; taking a spot that coulda gone to literally anybody else. And was, in fact, supposed to be Kurt Navarro’s spot on the team, until he bailed because his extracurricular activities got him into some hot water. But I guess the point is, you tried your best, and that's a kind of winning all on its own.
Ell-oh-ell! No, it isn't. You fucked up, because you thought you had it easy in that ring against my boi Damian Kaine -- and look where it got ya: first guy eliminated from Team All-Daddy. And on a team that included Sammy “Baked Beanz” McPherson, that's nothin’ short of pathetic.
Bonnie shakes her head in mock disappointment.
Outlasted by an imbecile, that's gotta hit ya where it hurts, huh? I mean, at least he was smart enough not to underestimate anybody on my team. But you, Wolfie? You thought I didn't know what I was doing, that I hadn't hand-picked each and every person on my team for very specific reasons. Well, aside from Singh, but I always knew he would betray us. It's his nature; he can't help it. Not any more than you can help being a huge, incompetent waste of time.
I mean, let's go through the list of people you've pinned: Night Rider. Estrella Luiz. “Jazzy” John McCarty. Matt Draven. Scott Slayer. Jeremiah Locke. Alex Richards. Jaice Wilds. Leon Hayze. Ultimate Destroyer. Jayson Price.
Anybody unfamiliar with our business might think that's an impressive list -- until ya realize half these people did nothing while they were here, and just faded into the background without anybody noticing. This company has been feeding you easy opponents. Building your confidence. Fattening you up like a sacrificial lamb.
You're not a Wolf, James.
You're a sheep being led to the slaughter -- and guess who's holding the knife?
An arrogant smirk turns up one corner of her mouth; sea-blue eyes glitter with malicious intent. Delicate fingers caress the golden belt on her shoulder with sensual grace.
Or did ya think I'd forgotten all about how you tried to insinuate that I didn't earn this World Title right here? How ya tried to belittle me, insisting that John Rabid somehow cheated on my behalf -- in spite of the fact that he never got anywhere near the ring until after I put Odin Balfore down for the one-two-three? Because you're such a misogynistic cunt that you couldn't conceive that a woman could defeat a man, much less a so-called god -- the evidence of your own eyes, week after week, and personal experience to the contrary. You probably even thought I forgot you called my previous win over you a “fluke” like the big crybaby you are. Because your overinflated ego can't handle losing to a woman; because in your outdated, chauvinistic worldview, we all belong in the kitchen or the bedroom; you probably don't even know what a clitoris is or where to find it.
No wonder your sister offed herself.
Her demeanor changes in an instant, cocky mirth replaced by a disdainful sneer.
This day was always coming, Wolfie. Shit like that doesn't go unpunished. You were on the list, but so far down, it really didn't matter. I could've demanded a match with you at any time, but why bother? You weren't going anywhere, and honestly, I had much more important matters to attend to.
See, for you, this is an epic struggle against overwhelming odds to prove your cock is still intact. For me, it's more like swatting a fly. If you win -- hypothetically -- it's a huge upset victory over a two-time WCF World Champion; when I win, it's just business as usual. And honestly, Wolfie, when was the last time you did anything impressive in a big match? Hmm?
Now don't strain yourself thinking too hard, James. I know it's been a while, and intellect ain't never been one of your strengths.
It was WAR, Wolfie; and in a match where you were outshined by Noble Savage’s fifteen minutes, even though you entered first and had the most time in, that ain't sayin’ a lot. And ever since then, any time it really mattered, you never could quite get the job done.
You had a shot at the Television Title -- arguably the most prestigious championship after the World Title -- and came up short. You had a chance to become the Numero Uno Contender for the Hardcore Title -- and completely blew it!
And you call yourself the “Hardcore Icon”?
Ell-em-ayy-oh! Outta you -- Mr. “Hardcore Icon” -- myself, and Michael X, remind me, which of the three of us never held that Hardcore strap?
I’m the Hardcore Queen the way Michael X is the Hardcore KING -- and to be honest, he's the living embodiment of that belt. It fulfills something in him. It's his passion, not just something he does for a paycheck. Unlike you, Wolfie. Ya talk a lot of shit about how ya just wanna get paid to hurt people. You can't be fulfilled, cause y'ain't nothing bit a black hole, sucking in everyone's attention, and always hungering for more; never satisfied.
Never providing satisfaction, neither.
James Wolf -- the greatest icon nobody's ever heard of. Alpha dog of the bathroom break match. A choke artist in the truest sense of the phrase, but you're no David Sanchez.
You're not the main course. Y'ain't even the appetizer; you're the basket of lukewarm breadsticks at Olive Garden -- not terrible, not great, just kinda there.
All you're really gonna be, Wolfie, when I embarrass you again in front of ninety-seven hundred fans screaming for your blood in Casper, Wyoming -- is just another mouse caught in the coils of the Serpentine.
With a sardonic smile, Bonnie blows a mocking kiss to the camera, and the video feed ends.
Part Two: ...No Bite
Part Two: ...No Bite
Motion detectors -- part of a state-of-the-art, all-inclusive security system protecting the Somerset mansion of John Rabid and his new bride, Bonnie Blue -- trigger alert messages to their respective smartphones. With John away at a business conference, only Bonnie and her android butler, R-7, are home to respond; and of the two, Bonnie is currently wrapping up a promo for the WCF Network. She scowls at the message on her screen as she exits the camera app.
Probably some punk kids, looking for an easy score. Nothing Seven can't handle.
Even so, she pulls up the video feed, looking for the source of the disturbance. She swipes through room after room: the kitchen, the dining room, the parlor, John's study, the bedroom they share, until finally, she finds them in the library. Two figures, one heavyset and tall, the other thin and lanky, are haphazardly yanking books from shelves, leafing through the pages, then tossing them aside.
They freeze as R-7 steps into the room. The heavyset man -- he seems older, though Bonnie can't be certain, the way his face is obscured behind an unadorned lucha mask -- draws a gun, and with a slight tremble to his hand, he fires at the android. The impact sets Seven back a step as his synthetic skin absorbs the bullet, activating an electric grid that reduces the projectile to dust in an instant. While his partner stares at the android in terrified awe, the thinner, younger man flees the room -- only to find himself face-to-face with Bonnie as she emerges through a shimmering silvery-blue portal. A single blow with the title belt still resting on her shoulder knocks him out cold. Grabbing his wrist, she drags him back into the library, where Seven has the other neatly trussed and kneeling on the hardwood floor.
Reaching down, the young goddess pulls the masks off the men, disappointed to find that she doesn't recognize them. Then again, why would she? They're just random intruders -- but what were they looking for? And why here, among the books, instead of going for an obvious target like the safe in Rabid's study? Something isn't right, but Bonnie can't quite put a finger on it. But she doesn't have to; she can persuade the answers from them. Seizing a handful of the older man's hair, she jerks his head up, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“You picked the wrong house, mister. You wanna tell me what you and your buddy there was after -- or am I gonna have to get unfriendly?”
She can feel his resistance, his will like a wall against her telepathic probing. As if he'd been prepared, told what to expect and how to fight it. For now, anyway. It would only be a matter of time before she wore away his defenses, and time is on her side.
Or, it was.
The front doors bang open under the battering of a steel ram. Police in Kevlar swarm in, separating Bonnie from the burglars. Zip ties bind their wrists, and the two are marched out with silent efficiency, as a blonde woman in a crisp black business suit strolls in.
“Miss Blue -- excuse me, I mean Mrs. Rabid,” she says, flashing a badge without bothering to introduce herself. “You'll need to come down to the department and make a statement.”
“No, she won't,” Seven interjects. “You can take Mrs. Rabid's statement here -- unless you intend to press charges…”
She doesn't acknowledge the android, instead flashing Bonnie a thin smile.
“Of course not.”
The blonde follows Bonnie down a long hallway and into the quiet kitchen, far removed from the noise and chaos of crime scene investigators, who seem to be making a bigger mess than the burglars had done. At a word from the champion, R-7 departs, leaving the two women alone.
“You're not a cop,” Bonnie observes.
“To the contrary, Miss Blue -- oh, sorry again, Mrs. Rabid. It's just, well, your husband was married before, and it does seem rather soon to remarry following that… unfortunate tragedy.”
The woman's tone is full of false sympathy. Suspicions aroused, the young goddess scowls, but chooses not to rise to the obvious bait. Sometimes silence rewards more than a direct question.
“It does make you wonder, doesn't it, Mrs. Rabid? About the circumstances which resulted in the previous Mrs. Rabid's untimely death? Would be a shame to find yourself in a similar situation.”
“Well, now, that sounds an awful lot like a threat.”
The wan smile returns to the detective’s pale lips, revealing a glimpse of pointed fangs.
“Less a threat,” she replies in a conversational tone, “and more a warning. The Covenant has tolerated your little acts of sedition. We've even dealt with your ex-boyfriend’s intervention into our affairs. But our patience is not without limits. Is that clear enough, or shall I translate that to redneck terms for you?”
“Nah, I reckon I understood that just fine. You're telling me if me and John don't stop saying the V-word in public, you're gonna kill me. Yeah, that wasn't too subtle, sugar. Now, here's my counter-proposal: take your dogs, get the fuck outta my house, and next time you need an excuse to go through my stuff, don't send amateurs to do your dirty work.”
From somewhere outside, a muffled explosion rattles the windows while a bright flare of orange briefly lights up the night sky. The blonde Covenant agent turns to Bonnie with an expression of shock; the Serpentine gives her a Cheshire cat smile in return.
“That'll be your surveillance van,” she explains. “Or did y'all really think I wouldn't be prepared for some shit like this without John here? Like everyone else, you made the mistake of assuming I ain't got a mind of my own, that I can't take care of myself. And you paid the price. Lucky for you the walk back to town is a long one; you're gonna need that time to figure out how to explain to your bosses how you managed to lose a dozen operatives and half a million dollars of equipment. Start now, you might even get there before the sun comes up.”
With a venomous glare, the blonde walks away, hesitating at the kitchen door to look back at Bonnie.
“This is far from over.”
“Oh, I'm counting on that, sugar.”
Bonnie smirks as she watches the woman walk out of the house, along the driveway, and toward the road, confident that her point is made. There will be others, she knows, but not any time soon. For now, she still has a suitcase to pack and a flight to catch.