(Bonnie Blue) Supernatural

The Road So Far…

Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion…

Bonnie Blue, early in her career, a fresh young woman of 20, full of hope, full of dreams. She makes the mistake of confronting the infamous John Rabid.



Months later, things escalate. Rabid corners her backstage at a taping of Slam. What follows is savage, brutal; she tries in vain to defend herself, but he’s fast -- much too fast -- and inhumanly strong.

Though my mind could think, I still was a madman…

She’d named him “Serpent”, and he embraced it. Month after month, she and her first compatriots stand against the might of #beachkrew when nobody else will. And one by one, under the careful guidance of John Rabid, they fall; until only Bonnie Blue remains.



#1heWav3 -- a universe-shattering event -- sunders the bonds of reality and results in two parallel worlds; with Bonnie trapped on one side, and Rabid on the other. And in this breakaway universe, she finds a new role: as leader of the most successful faction in the combat sports industry. The Guardians.



With Bonnie Blue at the helm, the Guardians take over United Championship Infinite, protecting the company against threats like David Sanchez, a madman bent on global domination; and Kevin Bishop, a cult figure who sought only to unleash his own brand of chaos and who made it his personal mission to destroy the Guardians.



But with Alex Richards, Andre Holmes, Damien Kaine, and L Verez at her side, Bonnie instead led the Guardians to countless victories, multiple titles.



She goes on to claim the UCI World Championship from Kevin Bishop, and shocks the world when, that same night, she aligns herself with her former enemies in #beachkrew. A year and a half later, she goes on to shock the world again, when she finally defeats the legendary Odin Balfore for the WCF World Championship -- and celebrates her victory by sharing a passionate kiss with her archnemesis, the Serpent himself: John Rabid.

Now…

Night.

The 1974 Ford Ranchero threw gravel as it pulled into the parking lot of a backwoods honky-tonk somewhere outside of Spokane washington. Neon flickered from the crown of the wooden facade: Blue Velvet Bar.

A little spot-on, Bonnie thought to herself, slamming the car door shut.

They’d heard her coming, no point being subtle now. That this was a trap couldn’t have been more obvious. Hers was the only vehicle in the lot, aside from a couple of forlorn and rust-pitted Harleys parked in front of the porch. She could hear the scrape of a glass against wood, the pull of a tap, but no sounds of revelry or music from within. An aura of expectant tension permeated the chill night air.

Not that she expected to be well-received. She and John had broken the power of the Covenant, scattered the members across the globe, and had spent the better part of the last six months hunting them down. There had been collateral damage. A few loose ends, like that Jimmy Nguyen back in D.C. And now, factions were on the rise, vying for preeminence in the wake of those events.

As if John hadn’t had a plan. As if he and Bonnie hadn’t been steadily working to replace the old, unyielding regime with their own vision for the future. A future that had no room for hardline loyalists or neo-traditionalists who would only implement their own version of the same old strictures. So many of them lacked John’s foresight, Bonnie’s infectious optimism; and in the end, they had to go.

It looked as if tonight would be no different. Perhaps it was better to rebuild their ranks with new blood.

Bonnie took up a briefcase she’d brought with her, on the likelihood this group wasn’t inclined toward reason, and walked confidently through the front door. No sooner had it closed behind her, than she was held at gunpoint by two scruffy-looking militant types, likely mercenaries, and human at that. Hired hunters. That meant they were scared, desperate. They knew what Bonnie was capable of and didn’t intend to take chances. She let them pat her down, looking for weapons she didn’t have. A multiple-time champion in two different wrestling promotions -- among those, a hardcore championship -- Bonnie Blue didn’t need weapons.

They led her to a corner table, seated her across from a man in a button-down flannel and designer jeans, hair neatly coiffed, with a thick hipster beard and black-rimmed glasses. He gave her a thin smile and offered a manicured hand, introducing himself as Dave Griffith.

“But everyone just calls me Griff,” he added.

Bonnie shrugged.

“I don’t care, Dave. I’m coming to you with an offer -- a generous one, considering -- and you greet me with hostility, suspicion, and… hunters? Seriously, my dude… bad precedent.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Rabid.”

“Precisely the way I like it, Dave. Means I don’t have to waste a lot of time making threats, because by now, you know I’ll back them up. Now, your group is the last holdout and frankly, John and I would appreciate your support. What we’re doing benefits all of us.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is,” Griff told her, his eyes darting to someone standing behind Bonnie, “I’m not really sold on that. I know your husband, Mrs. Rabid, and he never struck me as a team player. Bending the knee to him is the same as it would’ve been to the Covenant, except at least they were predictable. Had a set of ethics, and stuck to them.”

“Ethics? Is that what you call targeting a man’s wife and child, just to send him a message?”

The young blonde shook her head.

“I think we’re done here,” she added, sliding her chair back.

A heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, keeping her in her seat, as a blade was put to her throat. One of the hunters. She could smell cheap rye on his breath, and a lingering pungency that told her he hadn’t showered in days.

“Not quite, we’re not,” said Griff, leaning in close. “Your husband should have come here himself, Mrs. Rush. But I think he knew what he was sending you into. You think he sees you as equal, when all you are to him is expendable. However, I’m a reasonable man, so I’ll offer you the same choice you came here to offer me. In essence, join or die. Which will it be?”

Slowly, a wicked smile crept across pink-glossed lips; pointed fangs gleamed under diffuse light.

“Why,” began the Serpentine, “do you insist there are only two choices? I’ll take option… Seven!”

Immediately, a piercing wail split the air, and the blade at Bonnie’s throat vanished as the hunter clamped both hands over his ears, blood leaking from between his fingers. Griff and his cohorts reacted at once, clutching their heads in pain as their preternaturally sensitive hearing was overwhelmed. The plate glass windows fronting the bar shattered inward, and an imposing figure stepped inside. He was tall, dark-haired, with devilish good looks and an unconscious charisma -- precisely as he had been built and programmed: Ripper-7, or R-Seven, was a sophisticated android with an artificial intelligence derived from borrowed alien technology. (Or, as her former employer at WCF, Corey Black had succinctly put it, Bonnie’s robot butler.)

At her signal, the android shut off the sonic frequency. Bonnie slipped out the ear plugs she’d worn as a precaution. The hunters, being only human, were down for the count; but Griff and his kin were made of something more, and swiftly recovered. She didn’t get a chance to ask if they felt like being reasonable. Griff was set on keeping what little power he’d gleaned in the months since the fall of the Covenant, and at his word, they leapt to the attack.

The Event of the Season

The Blue Velvet Bar has looked better. Tables overturned, shards of glass scattered across the floor, pool cues discarded and broken -- one actually lodged into the wall and stained with bright red ichor -- and the jukebox in the corner stuck playing a single refrain of one song:



Crimson drag marks lead out through the back door. The android dutifully pushes a broom along the length of the wooden floor, while Bonnie herself perches on the only unbroken stool, leaning against the bar. Within easy reach is a wine glass, filled with something ruby-hued; port, perhaps, or sangria.

Bonnie Blue: Well, now that’s out of the way… Oh, you didn’t expect me to show all that, did you? It was quick. Disappointing, really. No build. No climax. Of course, I didn’t do it for pleasure. This time. And to be honest, I had help.

She nods toward R-Seven, still serenely sweeping.

Bonnie Blue: Or did ya reckon I’d try to convince y’all I took on a bar full of vam-- uh, bad guys -- all on my little ol’ lonesome? I mean, not that I couldn’t, but I ain’t one to brag. Unnecessarily. I ain’t Jaice Wilds.



Bonnie Blue: Now, Mr. Smith Jones… you and me, we got business this week, but ain’t nothin’ personal in it. Just good, friendly, competition. No vengeance. Nothin’ to prove. We ain’t even properly met.

So allow me to introduce myself.



Bonnie Blue: You thought Dean Wolf was hardcore? Nah. That boy was a showman, pure and simple. Talked the talked, faked his way through the walk, but me? Honey, there’s a reason people call me the Hardcore Queen -- the #HorrorKore Queen. When I earned that nickname the first time, it was after I challenged the meanest son of a bitch in the business to a match tailored specifically to his style: a streetfight. No rules. No disqualifications. Just me and him, bare-knuckle brawling. Little Bonnie Blue and Stevie Corah, all six foot plus of pure rage. And I put his ass through the windshield of a taxi to earn back my UCI Intercontinental Title. It was so brutal, I only half-remember the match, and the thing that stuck with me was how I got carried out afterward -- triumphant, in the arms of a longtime rival, with that belt secure around my waist.

Wasn’t until later that Hardcore became #HorrorKore, and that’s a much longer, more involved story. Suffice it to say, the story concludes with me winnin’ another title -- the WCF Hardcore strap. The one title that used to be the career-killer. It was the belt they gave you when you were done. When you had nothing left to give, so you might as well try and go out on a high note. I brought it back from that. I embraced the philosophy of #HorrorKore and made that belt mean something for the first time in literal years.



Bonnie Blue: You’re wrong, y’know, about Hardcore in general. There’s a science to it, a finesse, that most people never grasp. It’s not just light tubes an’ barbed wire. It ain’t all bloodsport. Or maybe… maybe I’m just one of the few who’s managed to elevate ultraviolence to an art form. Either way, point is, Dean Wolf has been your biggest challenge to date -- aside from the unfortunate Masuda Jubei -- an’ trust me when I say, ol’ Wolfie ain’t got nothin’ on me.

The young woman grins, a dual pair of fangs just visible for an instant, and takes a sip from her glass.



Bonnie Blue: But I don’t s’pose you really care about any of that, do ya, Mr. Smith Jones? An’ that’s fine. I said I’m hardcore, but that ain’t all I am. I could list the litany of belts for ya, but who’s got time for that? It’s readily available information, right there in my profile on the A-P-Dub website. And you’re the kinda man who does his homework, so let’s not be redundant.

Thing is, I haven’t got much negative to say about you. Because… why should I?

It don’t matter to me that you never got a chance to prove yourself the one true APW World Champion, since ol’ Jubei went an’ got himself killed before you could face him for that title. Or that ya lost it to Dean Wolf, who subsequently lost his damn mind, got himself fired, and then banished to Niflheim, where he’s probably some frost giant’s bitch by now.



Bonnie Blue: I mean, ain’t like anybody else been up to the challenge -- not even Frank Patrick Venable, and that dude… There aren’t many who can claim they stood against FPV and prevailed. A handful that includes you… an’ Bonnie Blue. An’ probably a few other people, but they ain’t really relevant to the matter at hand, and that matter is you an’ me.

We’re a lot alike, Smitty. The fans, they either love us or hate us, no in between. No ambiguity. We’re polarizing. We stand above the rest. We’re both leaders. Both champions. We both love this profession with everything we are. It defines us. We define it. And when we step into that ring Monday night, there is nothin’ between you an’ me but pure competition, uncomplicated.

That… I miss that. These days, every time I step into the ring, it is fraught, y’know? A matter of great import, charting the path of destiny or some shit. Well, at the very least, it’s a matter of cleaning up messes that were made in my name, using my legacy. Gotta be honest with ya, this is, in part, preparation for a match yet to come. See, in two weeks, I face another of the failed “new” Guardians at Action Wrestling. And in June, I’ll go head to head with the man who broke my heart, but that… well, that’s months away yet.

She glances away, her mind briefly turning to that future date; the events that led up to it. Sea-blue eyes darken like a tempest, only for a moment… and the moment’s gone. Bonnie wrenches her thoughts back on course, and other concerns scatter like dust in the wind.



Bonnie Blue: Like I said, I respect you, Smitty. I see us as kindred spirits, and in another time, another place, we might even find ourselves in the same corner. But the flipside of that particular coin is that I’m gonna bring you everything I’ve got, and if that means I have to be a ruthless bitch to put your shoulders down for that one… two… three -- ain’t gonna be no Controversy at that point. Ya feel me?

Oh yeah, I know ya do. Some things are inevitable, and my victory is one of ‘em.

With a playful wink and a half-smile, Bonnie blows a kiss to the camera, and the scene fades to black.