Revolution/Devolution
Jan 25, 2020 14:08:06 GMT -5
Odin Balfore, “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, and 4 more like this
Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 25, 2020 14:08:06 GMT -5
Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony (Movement No. 2) plays against the backdrop of a black screen, the music rising to allegretto tempo before the volume lowers to accommodate a familiar voice.
Voiceover (Bonnie Blue): The following video has been intercept-- Nah, it hasn’t. Not really. And neither have any of Jaice Wilds’ little missives to his opponents. Nobody cares enough to “intercept” that shit. You publish that nonsense yourself every week, you pathetic fuccboi. Anyway, just sit down and watch. Maybe you’ll learn somethin’... but that’s a bigger longshot than you actually beating me this Sunday at Revolution.
A steadicam shot opens to a sterile room, tiled in white and furnished in stainless steel. Cold. Clinical. From off-camera comes a muffled sound of protest, followed by a feminine voice speaking in soft, reassuring tones. The #HorrorKore Queen herself, Bonnie Blue, saunters into the shot, her sea-blue gaze still cast at something -- someone -- yet unseen.
Bonnie Blue: Shhh, darlin’. This ain’t gonna hurt none. It’ll all be over real soon, I promise. Just gotta get set up first. Couple things ya girl gotta take care of.
She walks out of the shot again, and this time the camera follows to catch her as she opens up a sealed package with an IV needle and several meters of clear tubing. The view pans across the sterile room to a young Asian-American man in slacks and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up; zip-tied, wrist and ankle, to a chair. A silk necktie is wound around the lower half of his face by way of a gag. He murmurs in distress as Bonnie prods his forearm with her fingers, then deftly inserts the needle under his skin, directly into an artery. Crimson claret flows down the line, progress followed by worried brown eyes as the Serpentine slips the open end into a decorative glass bottle, wrought with a pair of snakes twined around it in silver filigree.
Bonnie Blue: Y’know, you’re pretty damn lucky. My husband takes a real dim view of folks betrayin’ him. Kinda old-fashioned when it comes to vendettas and the like. But I talked him outta what he wanted to do with ya in the first place, Jimmy. Y’don’t wanna know the details, just trust me. It was messy. I told him, Jimbo, you were just a facilitator. A middleman. You didn’t really know who ya was screwin’, or why, or how. I bet ya reckoned it was some off-book dark op, right?
Bonnie looks to him as if for confirmation, and in response, he nods wildly.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, that’s what I figured. But… well, that don’t completely let ya off the hook, Jimmy. So this…
The young woman points to the needle as she tapes it in place.
Bonnie Blue: ...best compromise I could come up with.
She reaches for the line to adjust the valve, slowing the flow of blood to a steady drip.
Bonnie Blue: Not too quick, now. We got a little time to kill. Y’don’t mind, do ya?
Bonnie reaches up to remove the gag from the bewildered man’s mouth.
Jimmy: What do you want? I’ll give you anything! Tell you whatever you want to know!
With a sigh of disappointment, she stuffs the silk tie back into his mouth, muffling his words once again.
Bonnie Blue: No, no, no, Jimmy. Y’just don’t get it. I don’t need information. Ya got nothin’ I want. I know everything. Names. Locations. Schedules. That ain’t what this is about. You watch too many movies. You, Jimmy Nguyen, are a loose end. And you’re gonna serve as an example.
After a quick double check of the restraints, satisfied with a job well done, Bonnie stands and leans against a stainless steel table, positioned directly over a pink-stained drain in the white tile; the sort of table where autopsies might be performed. She fishes a little glass tube from the pocket of the lab coat she wears to cover a shimmering azure Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress; thumbs off the plastic seal, and shakes a small joint into her hand. Holding it between her lips, she sparks up and inhales deeply, breathing out a thick cloud of blue-tinged smoke.
Bonnie Blue: This stays our little secret, okay, Jimmy? John don’t like it when I indulge in certain vices. Says it’s beneath us, y’know? But look, my dude, there’s only so many times I can pretend to be able to tell the difference between a 1949 Richebourg Grand Cru and a Cheval-Blanc St. Emilion from 1947. The things we do for love, right?
Makes ya wonder just how it is we got here. To this point; this time; this place. Funny, how fate moves us around like chessmen; two out of billions, and yet, here we are, sharing these moments. For me, Jimmy, it started back around August or September of 2018. For you, well, a couple weeks sooner. But our fates were tied together the night the Covenant firebombed the home of one Jason Rush -- better known to American wrestling fans as John Rabid. That’s why you’re here tonight, Jimmy.
The Serpentine takes a long drag, her expression reflective; thoughtful.
Bonnie Blue: And me? Well, indirectly, it’s because of that same incident. Because that’s ultimately what brought us together. But more directly, I’m here tonight because of Jaice Wilds. Because he’s a swaggering loudmouth, a plebian fool with delusions of glory; a man who claims a ten-year tenure of staggering mediocrity, who in one breath states that titles are irrelevant, while boasting of his six title reigns -- though conveniently without mentioning specific details that might diminish the claim.
I mean, Jimmy, the guy tried to claim that he resurrected Corey Black’s career -- while Corey himself was firmly in the limelight, and in possession of the very title Jaice covets above all others. The very title Black bested him for at least twice in the last six months. And you know what Wilds’ reaction was after getting his ass handed to him? The smarky little shit tried to pass off some asinine fiction about a body double!
Shaking her head in bemused wonder, she takes another hit from the joint. As she exhales again, her steady gaze finds the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, so go ahead, Jaice. Write your letter like you always do, you predictable, unimaginative ass. Frame it against the backdrop of some mediocre “day in the life” episode of your otherwise dull and uninspiring existence. That’s your whole shtick, but me? I want more. I want you to see me, look in my eyes, when I tell you that I am coming to rip asunder every little delusion, every fabrication, every lie you tell yourself to get through the day.
Because that’s all you are. Jaice Wilds is a collection of loosely strung together narratives invented to cover up the inadequacies of a career run too long, with too few achievements. You’re a parasite, Jaice, riding on the accomplishments of your betters while trying to take the credit for yourself. A remora, feeding on the careers of the people around you, relying on them to prop you up so you don’t have to do any actual work on your own. Like poor Damien Kaine, who believed you to be his friend. You sold him some story about how you used to be something, and could be again, with just the right partner -- and how did that work out for you? How many title reigns did your little “Order of Chaos” have?
The hint of a smirk turns up her lips.
Bonnie Blue: That’s rhetorical, of course. Everybody knows the answer is zero. But hey, it got you what you wanted -- inclusion into the Guardians. Not even the good version. Not the respected version, that dominated every moment of UCI programming. Not my Guardians.
No, you took a spot with a faction in freefall, a faction with no leadership but the pedagoguery of a fame-seeking alien -- perfect for an infantile attention whore like yourself, Jaice. The two of you working in tandem to tarnish the good name of the group I built; that I led to prominence; the group that, under my leadership, had more combined and individual title reigns in the year and a half at UCI than you’ve had in the span of your entire career, Wilds. And you, like the leech that you are, draining away all that made my Guardians stand out until all that remained was a standing joke. You, Jaice, and everyone who came along with you; after you.
Bonnie shakes her head, derision evident in sea-blue eyes as she looks back at the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Unlike you, Jaice, the others had the good sense to flee. Enough basic survival instinct not to continually provoke me over social media. You expected… what? That I’d back down? That, by repeating the same tired arguments I’d eventually just give in, so you’d stop embarrassing yourself? I mean, honestly, I almost felt bad for you. People who don’t even like me were verbally sodomizing you over the constant stream of bullshit spewing from your keyboard. Every single one of us lost brain cells from reading it, that’s the level of stupidity you were perpetuating.
The funniest part, though, was you talking about Corey Black and “your” spotlight.
Yours?
Bonnie takes another long, slow toke and lets it out with a slow hiss of amusement.
Bonnie Blue: For a man as inexperienced with it as you are, you have a lot to say about the spotlight. Always wanting to know where I been, why I haven’t been in it, claiming I been out of this life for “over a year” when it’s been seven months, at the outside. Some might view stepping out of the spotlight as the beginning of a slide into irrelevancy, but you know who says that? People who have never really been in the spotlight. They have no concept how exhausting it is. The demands on your time, your attention, the intrusions on your day to day life. Not that I don’t love every minute of it, but sometimes I need my space. Which is why John and I decided to take an extended honeymoon after WCF closed for good.
We haven’t been idle, either. We’ve been wrapping up some loose ends; doing a little recruiting of our own, since my husband -- as Jason Rush -- owns a very successful promotion based out of London; of course, promoting John’s book, How to Manage a World Champion. Then there’s my own line of fitness videos, equipment, and activewear -- the Serpentine brand is very big in Europe and Asia.
Unlike you. Where were you, Jaice Wilds, between getting your ass kicked by Corey Black in June, and getting your ass kicked by Corey Black at XIII this last December?
The #HorrorKore Queen rests the joint between her lips and glances up, her face a mask of mock-concentration.
Bonnie Blue: Oh, that’s right, you were fired by AW and had to go to work for some little startup, where your biggest claim to fame is that you held the lowest ranked belt for exactly one week before getting your ass kicked by a tiny Japanese woman. All your flashy theatrics, your acrobatic splendor, your aerial skills -- none of that could save you from Tsukiko, and damn sure couldn’t save you from Zombie McMorris in that Hardcore Title match two weeks ago.
Goddess-damn, Jaice, the only thing “Xtreme” about you, besides the fact that Mikey X should’ve sued you for copyright infringement years ago, is your penchant for making big statements you can’t back up and then losing in spectacular fashion.
That, and your “Xtreme” cowardice. Yeah, you make a good case for gettin’ capped, the way you play keyboard warrior, but stop just short of issuing any kind of legitimate challenge. Like ya reckon you’re just gonna annoy somebody better than you into issuing the challenge themselves? You think Odin Balfore wants to fight you? He ain’t got a clue who you are. But you know who he’d step into that ring with?
Crimson lips part in a viperous smile, pointed teeth gleaming under cold fluorescent light.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, that’s right, Ya girl, Bonnie. Odin wouldn’t hesitate, not for one second, if I said “Hey, big All-Daddy, let’s go for it again.” And I wouldn’t wait until he drops the belt, because I would, hypothetically, want Odin Balfore at his best. Just like at WCF. Just like when I won that World Heavyweight Championship they all said I couldn’t. But you, Jaice? Mr. “Titles Aren’t Relevant Because I Don’t Have One” -- you ain’t got the sack to ask Odin for a title match. Just like you ain’t got the THICK to challenge this SLICK, ya feel me?
No, ya don’t. And that’s the underlyin’ problem. You sit there behind your keyboard, and you thinkin’ to yourself “Yeah, I really got her good with that one!” and then the next thing you know, management is comin’ to me askin’ if I wanna do something about this bullshit. And that, my little fuccboi, is the sole an’ only reason you got this match in the first place.
Her attitude turns darker, now; more serious, as she drops the smoldering end of the joint and crushes it beneath her red-soled Christian Louboutins, a Christmas gift from the Duke and Duchess of Sussex prior to the whole Megxit controversy.
Bonnie Blue: Let me disabuse you of this inaccurate notion ya got about how you’re “reigniting” my career or some shit. I ain’t the one who flamed out, and I damn sure ain’t lookin’ to someone like you to put me back into a spotlight I never abandoned. This match, this don’t do shit for my career. But I sure as hell elevated you, and all it took was one word. We ain’t in the spot just under the top by accident, and it damn sure ain’t got shit to do with you, Jaice. I’ve seen your bookings. Best you ever got is that midcard glory, and that, my dude, is where you shoulda stayed.
‘Cause steppin’ to Bonnie Blue is fixin’ to be the worst mistake of your life.
You know why I’m gonna beat you, Jaice? It’s simple. Because, to borrow a catchphrase about four years out of date, I’m better than you. In every conceivable way, better. I been in this business a third of the time you have, and I’m already a household name. Nobody’s gonna forget Bonnie Blue, but after Sunday night, the question is gonna be “Jaice Who?”
You say you want a Revolution, well, y’know… we all wanna change the world. And I’m gonna change yours, Jaice. After Revolution, won’t nobody remember that the only thing you’re famous for is blaming a body double for your continual humiliating losses to the King of All Wrestlers. You’ll have a whole other level of humiliation to suffer when you eat a pin courtesy of the Queen of HorrorKore.
So you go on ahead, Jaice. Tell the whole world how “irrelevant” I am. How my six UCI title reigns and four WCF title reigns don’t mean nothin’. How it don’t matter who I beat before, because you maybe have one in the W column against me, damn near two years ago. Or was that your doppelganger? Evil twin? I dunno, it’s so hard to keep all those lies, all those excuses straight in my mind. Go on and throw in the fact that I failed to capture the APW HorrorKore strap while you’re at it, that’ll give you a little credibility at least. But also realize that when I crush you underneath the heel of my boot -- and you better believe that I will -- you ain’t got nobody to blame but yourself.
No body-snatcher bullshit excuses when you’re on your back starin’ up at those lights. When the ref counts that one-two-three, and the bell rings, and Bonnie Blue is standin’ over your punk ass -- there’s no retreat. No redemption. No savin’ you from the fate you brought on yourself.
Kinda like this poor bastard right here.
She nods, and the camera pans across to the trussed-up Jimmy Nguyen, slumped forward in his chair.
Bonnie Blue: Except that you, Mr. Wilds, ain’t gonna be near so lucky.
With that, she makes a quick “cut” motion, and the camera shuts off.
They would think it was all an act, of course. A clever set-piece to illustrate the perils of crossing Bonnie Blue. Nobody would believe her capable of such callous cruelty. And that was how she preferred it.
There will be no body, no evidence to indicate a crime has even occurred. That’s what the incinerator is for. And with the help of an advanced artificial intelligence known as Ripper-7, a trail is laid, a new fate written: Jimmy Nguyen, former congressional aide, has gone to Hollywood to pursue acting, in the wake of his successful guest spot in an Action Wrestling promo. Later, his position on Capitol Hill will be filled by a candidate of Rabid’s choosing; one of their own, selected from the ranks the couple had “recruited” during their extended trip across Europe.
Tomorrow, there will be a match to prepare for. To win, for to do otherwise is unimaginable.
But tonight? A silvery-white Rolls waits in a rain-slick parking lot; within, her beloved husband. The car pulls away slowly to return them to the Mandarin Oriental, to a night spent in each other’s arms, making love to the melody of Beethoven’s Seventh.
Fin.
Voiceover (Bonnie Blue): The following video has been intercept-- Nah, it hasn’t. Not really. And neither have any of Jaice Wilds’ little missives to his opponents. Nobody cares enough to “intercept” that shit. You publish that nonsense yourself every week, you pathetic fuccboi. Anyway, just sit down and watch. Maybe you’ll learn somethin’... but that’s a bigger longshot than you actually beating me this Sunday at Revolution.
A steadicam shot opens to a sterile room, tiled in white and furnished in stainless steel. Cold. Clinical. From off-camera comes a muffled sound of protest, followed by a feminine voice speaking in soft, reassuring tones. The #HorrorKore Queen herself, Bonnie Blue, saunters into the shot, her sea-blue gaze still cast at something -- someone -- yet unseen.
Bonnie Blue: Shhh, darlin’. This ain’t gonna hurt none. It’ll all be over real soon, I promise. Just gotta get set up first. Couple things ya girl gotta take care of.
She walks out of the shot again, and this time the camera follows to catch her as she opens up a sealed package with an IV needle and several meters of clear tubing. The view pans across the sterile room to a young Asian-American man in slacks and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up; zip-tied, wrist and ankle, to a chair. A silk necktie is wound around the lower half of his face by way of a gag. He murmurs in distress as Bonnie prods his forearm with her fingers, then deftly inserts the needle under his skin, directly into an artery. Crimson claret flows down the line, progress followed by worried brown eyes as the Serpentine slips the open end into a decorative glass bottle, wrought with a pair of snakes twined around it in silver filigree.
Bonnie Blue: Y’know, you’re pretty damn lucky. My husband takes a real dim view of folks betrayin’ him. Kinda old-fashioned when it comes to vendettas and the like. But I talked him outta what he wanted to do with ya in the first place, Jimmy. Y’don’t wanna know the details, just trust me. It was messy. I told him, Jimbo, you were just a facilitator. A middleman. You didn’t really know who ya was screwin’, or why, or how. I bet ya reckoned it was some off-book dark op, right?
Bonnie looks to him as if for confirmation, and in response, he nods wildly.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, that’s what I figured. But… well, that don’t completely let ya off the hook, Jimmy. So this…
The young woman points to the needle as she tapes it in place.
Bonnie Blue: ...best compromise I could come up with.
She reaches for the line to adjust the valve, slowing the flow of blood to a steady drip.
Bonnie Blue: Not too quick, now. We got a little time to kill. Y’don’t mind, do ya?
Bonnie reaches up to remove the gag from the bewildered man’s mouth.
Jimmy: What do you want? I’ll give you anything! Tell you whatever you want to know!
With a sigh of disappointment, she stuffs the silk tie back into his mouth, muffling his words once again.
Bonnie Blue: No, no, no, Jimmy. Y’just don’t get it. I don’t need information. Ya got nothin’ I want. I know everything. Names. Locations. Schedules. That ain’t what this is about. You watch too many movies. You, Jimmy Nguyen, are a loose end. And you’re gonna serve as an example.
After a quick double check of the restraints, satisfied with a job well done, Bonnie stands and leans against a stainless steel table, positioned directly over a pink-stained drain in the white tile; the sort of table where autopsies might be performed. She fishes a little glass tube from the pocket of the lab coat she wears to cover a shimmering azure Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress; thumbs off the plastic seal, and shakes a small joint into her hand. Holding it between her lips, she sparks up and inhales deeply, breathing out a thick cloud of blue-tinged smoke.
Bonnie Blue: This stays our little secret, okay, Jimmy? John don’t like it when I indulge in certain vices. Says it’s beneath us, y’know? But look, my dude, there’s only so many times I can pretend to be able to tell the difference between a 1949 Richebourg Grand Cru and a Cheval-Blanc St. Emilion from 1947. The things we do for love, right?
Makes ya wonder just how it is we got here. To this point; this time; this place. Funny, how fate moves us around like chessmen; two out of billions, and yet, here we are, sharing these moments. For me, Jimmy, it started back around August or September of 2018. For you, well, a couple weeks sooner. But our fates were tied together the night the Covenant firebombed the home of one Jason Rush -- better known to American wrestling fans as John Rabid. That’s why you’re here tonight, Jimmy.
The Serpentine takes a long drag, her expression reflective; thoughtful.
Bonnie Blue: And me? Well, indirectly, it’s because of that same incident. Because that’s ultimately what brought us together. But more directly, I’m here tonight because of Jaice Wilds. Because he’s a swaggering loudmouth, a plebian fool with delusions of glory; a man who claims a ten-year tenure of staggering mediocrity, who in one breath states that titles are irrelevant, while boasting of his six title reigns -- though conveniently without mentioning specific details that might diminish the claim.
I mean, Jimmy, the guy tried to claim that he resurrected Corey Black’s career -- while Corey himself was firmly in the limelight, and in possession of the very title Jaice covets above all others. The very title Black bested him for at least twice in the last six months. And you know what Wilds’ reaction was after getting his ass handed to him? The smarky little shit tried to pass off some asinine fiction about a body double!
Shaking her head in bemused wonder, she takes another hit from the joint. As she exhales again, her steady gaze finds the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, so go ahead, Jaice. Write your letter like you always do, you predictable, unimaginative ass. Frame it against the backdrop of some mediocre “day in the life” episode of your otherwise dull and uninspiring existence. That’s your whole shtick, but me? I want more. I want you to see me, look in my eyes, when I tell you that I am coming to rip asunder every little delusion, every fabrication, every lie you tell yourself to get through the day.
Because that’s all you are. Jaice Wilds is a collection of loosely strung together narratives invented to cover up the inadequacies of a career run too long, with too few achievements. You’re a parasite, Jaice, riding on the accomplishments of your betters while trying to take the credit for yourself. A remora, feeding on the careers of the people around you, relying on them to prop you up so you don’t have to do any actual work on your own. Like poor Damien Kaine, who believed you to be his friend. You sold him some story about how you used to be something, and could be again, with just the right partner -- and how did that work out for you? How many title reigns did your little “Order of Chaos” have?
The hint of a smirk turns up her lips.
Bonnie Blue: That’s rhetorical, of course. Everybody knows the answer is zero. But hey, it got you what you wanted -- inclusion into the Guardians. Not even the good version. Not the respected version, that dominated every moment of UCI programming. Not my Guardians.
No, you took a spot with a faction in freefall, a faction with no leadership but the pedagoguery of a fame-seeking alien -- perfect for an infantile attention whore like yourself, Jaice. The two of you working in tandem to tarnish the good name of the group I built; that I led to prominence; the group that, under my leadership, had more combined and individual title reigns in the year and a half at UCI than you’ve had in the span of your entire career, Wilds. And you, like the leech that you are, draining away all that made my Guardians stand out until all that remained was a standing joke. You, Jaice, and everyone who came along with you; after you.
Bonnie shakes her head, derision evident in sea-blue eyes as she looks back at the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Unlike you, Jaice, the others had the good sense to flee. Enough basic survival instinct not to continually provoke me over social media. You expected… what? That I’d back down? That, by repeating the same tired arguments I’d eventually just give in, so you’d stop embarrassing yourself? I mean, honestly, I almost felt bad for you. People who don’t even like me were verbally sodomizing you over the constant stream of bullshit spewing from your keyboard. Every single one of us lost brain cells from reading it, that’s the level of stupidity you were perpetuating.
The funniest part, though, was you talking about Corey Black and “your” spotlight.
Yours?
Bonnie takes another long, slow toke and lets it out with a slow hiss of amusement.
Bonnie Blue: For a man as inexperienced with it as you are, you have a lot to say about the spotlight. Always wanting to know where I been, why I haven’t been in it, claiming I been out of this life for “over a year” when it’s been seven months, at the outside. Some might view stepping out of the spotlight as the beginning of a slide into irrelevancy, but you know who says that? People who have never really been in the spotlight. They have no concept how exhausting it is. The demands on your time, your attention, the intrusions on your day to day life. Not that I don’t love every minute of it, but sometimes I need my space. Which is why John and I decided to take an extended honeymoon after WCF closed for good.
We haven’t been idle, either. We’ve been wrapping up some loose ends; doing a little recruiting of our own, since my husband -- as Jason Rush -- owns a very successful promotion based out of London; of course, promoting John’s book, How to Manage a World Champion. Then there’s my own line of fitness videos, equipment, and activewear -- the Serpentine brand is very big in Europe and Asia.
Unlike you. Where were you, Jaice Wilds, between getting your ass kicked by Corey Black in June, and getting your ass kicked by Corey Black at XIII this last December?
The #HorrorKore Queen rests the joint between her lips and glances up, her face a mask of mock-concentration.
Bonnie Blue: Oh, that’s right, you were fired by AW and had to go to work for some little startup, where your biggest claim to fame is that you held the lowest ranked belt for exactly one week before getting your ass kicked by a tiny Japanese woman. All your flashy theatrics, your acrobatic splendor, your aerial skills -- none of that could save you from Tsukiko, and damn sure couldn’t save you from Zombie McMorris in that Hardcore Title match two weeks ago.
Goddess-damn, Jaice, the only thing “Xtreme” about you, besides the fact that Mikey X should’ve sued you for copyright infringement years ago, is your penchant for making big statements you can’t back up and then losing in spectacular fashion.
That, and your “Xtreme” cowardice. Yeah, you make a good case for gettin’ capped, the way you play keyboard warrior, but stop just short of issuing any kind of legitimate challenge. Like ya reckon you’re just gonna annoy somebody better than you into issuing the challenge themselves? You think Odin Balfore wants to fight you? He ain’t got a clue who you are. But you know who he’d step into that ring with?
Crimson lips part in a viperous smile, pointed teeth gleaming under cold fluorescent light.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah, that’s right, Ya girl, Bonnie. Odin wouldn’t hesitate, not for one second, if I said “Hey, big All-Daddy, let’s go for it again.” And I wouldn’t wait until he drops the belt, because I would, hypothetically, want Odin Balfore at his best. Just like at WCF. Just like when I won that World Heavyweight Championship they all said I couldn’t. But you, Jaice? Mr. “Titles Aren’t Relevant Because I Don’t Have One” -- you ain’t got the sack to ask Odin for a title match. Just like you ain’t got the THICK to challenge this SLICK, ya feel me?
No, ya don’t. And that’s the underlyin’ problem. You sit there behind your keyboard, and you thinkin’ to yourself “Yeah, I really got her good with that one!” and then the next thing you know, management is comin’ to me askin’ if I wanna do something about this bullshit. And that, my little fuccboi, is the sole an’ only reason you got this match in the first place.
Her attitude turns darker, now; more serious, as she drops the smoldering end of the joint and crushes it beneath her red-soled Christian Louboutins, a Christmas gift from the Duke and Duchess of Sussex prior to the whole Megxit controversy.
Bonnie Blue: Let me disabuse you of this inaccurate notion ya got about how you’re “reigniting” my career or some shit. I ain’t the one who flamed out, and I damn sure ain’t lookin’ to someone like you to put me back into a spotlight I never abandoned. This match, this don’t do shit for my career. But I sure as hell elevated you, and all it took was one word. We ain’t in the spot just under the top by accident, and it damn sure ain’t got shit to do with you, Jaice. I’ve seen your bookings. Best you ever got is that midcard glory, and that, my dude, is where you shoulda stayed.
‘Cause steppin’ to Bonnie Blue is fixin’ to be the worst mistake of your life.
You know why I’m gonna beat you, Jaice? It’s simple. Because, to borrow a catchphrase about four years out of date, I’m better than you. In every conceivable way, better. I been in this business a third of the time you have, and I’m already a household name. Nobody’s gonna forget Bonnie Blue, but after Sunday night, the question is gonna be “Jaice Who?”
You say you want a Revolution, well, y’know… we all wanna change the world. And I’m gonna change yours, Jaice. After Revolution, won’t nobody remember that the only thing you’re famous for is blaming a body double for your continual humiliating losses to the King of All Wrestlers. You’ll have a whole other level of humiliation to suffer when you eat a pin courtesy of the Queen of HorrorKore.
So you go on ahead, Jaice. Tell the whole world how “irrelevant” I am. How my six UCI title reigns and four WCF title reigns don’t mean nothin’. How it don’t matter who I beat before, because you maybe have one in the W column against me, damn near two years ago. Or was that your doppelganger? Evil twin? I dunno, it’s so hard to keep all those lies, all those excuses straight in my mind. Go on and throw in the fact that I failed to capture the APW HorrorKore strap while you’re at it, that’ll give you a little credibility at least. But also realize that when I crush you underneath the heel of my boot -- and you better believe that I will -- you ain’t got nobody to blame but yourself.
No body-snatcher bullshit excuses when you’re on your back starin’ up at those lights. When the ref counts that one-two-three, and the bell rings, and Bonnie Blue is standin’ over your punk ass -- there’s no retreat. No redemption. No savin’ you from the fate you brought on yourself.
Kinda like this poor bastard right here.
She nods, and the camera pans across to the trussed-up Jimmy Nguyen, slumped forward in his chair.
Bonnie Blue: Except that you, Mr. Wilds, ain’t gonna be near so lucky.
With that, she makes a quick “cut” motion, and the camera shuts off.
Epilogue:
They would think it was all an act, of course. A clever set-piece to illustrate the perils of crossing Bonnie Blue. Nobody would believe her capable of such callous cruelty. And that was how she preferred it.
There will be no body, no evidence to indicate a crime has even occurred. That’s what the incinerator is for. And with the help of an advanced artificial intelligence known as Ripper-7, a trail is laid, a new fate written: Jimmy Nguyen, former congressional aide, has gone to Hollywood to pursue acting, in the wake of his successful guest spot in an Action Wrestling promo. Later, his position on Capitol Hill will be filled by a candidate of Rabid’s choosing; one of their own, selected from the ranks the couple had “recruited” during their extended trip across Europe.
Tomorrow, there will be a match to prepare for. To win, for to do otherwise is unimaginable.
But tonight? A silvery-white Rolls waits in a rain-slick parking lot; within, her beloved husband. The car pulls away slowly to return them to the Mandarin Oriental, to a night spent in each other’s arms, making love to the melody of Beethoven’s Seventh.
Fin.