XWF∞

Of No Consequence

Three Weeks Ago:

Every casino on the Strip is a study in excess, gilded with the promise of golden fortune, glittering temptation to indulge any vice imaginable -- and some, perhaps, that strain the bounds of credulity. Las Vegas is a city dedicated to sin, a lure for the unwary, a vast and gleaming spider’s web, intricately designed to trap even the hardiest souls in an unending cycle of desire and gratification. Dreams are made here, and broken almost as quickly, aside from the luckiest few. They come, knowing what awaits, hungering for the ruin as much as they hunger for success.

Even within the walls of the Guilliano Hotel and Casino, where the shining trappings of gold and glamour are traded out for a subdued elegance, there is a pervasive sense of a patient predator, waiting to strike. Muted silvers and jewel-toned blues beneath subdued light stand in stark contrast to the preponderance of neon brilliance and lurid shades so common along the boulevard. Absent from the casino floor are the endless banks of noisy slot machines and roving bevies of showgirls. Instead, tuxedoed waiters drift with effortless grace between gambling tables to deliver drinks before vanishing like phantoms in the night. 

And beyond this public display of taste and sophistication, behind doors of honey-hued tiger maple; small, private rooms cater to games of astronomical risk and unlikely stakes. The sort of games where the buy-in is collected in blood, figuratively speaking… most of the time. To one of these rooms, a man is led. Dressed in black Armani, leather-soled Italian loafers, and a crimson silk cravat with a black diamond tie pin, he fits the surroundings perfectly. Thick hair is swept back and gelled above shorn sides; a neatly-trimmed beard enhances the angle of his jaw, giving his smile a wolfish aspect as green eyes sweep the stunning form of Bonnie Blue.

She rises from her place at the felt-covered table, azure dress moving in thalassic waves with each step she takes toward him, offering her hand in greeting.

“Mr. Stoker, I presume?”

His nod is perfunctory. At her gesture, he takes a seat, his gaze falling to the unopened deck of cards sitting squarely in the center of the table. 

“Mmhmm. And I’ll save you the trouble of asking: Yes, like the author. Abraham was my great-grand-uncle, or something like that. Hated vampires, he did. So there’s, perhaps, an irony in this.”

Bonnie gives him a wry smile. Stoker, she’s well aware, is a representative of the Covenant: an ancient organization that governs the affairs of vampires in the archaic and misguided belief that one day, the First Among Them, the Nosferatu, would return and lead them all to a new age of vampire dominance. Most don’t believe in the old legends as anything but fairy tales, but the Covenant yet remains the primary political power among their kind. Only a few individuals, Bonnie’s husband being one of them, hold enough wealth and influence to present any sort of opposition. They play a centuries-long game of delicate balance. A balance John had long since grown weary of, and one that Bonnie fully intends to disrupt.

“Have you come to chastise me, Mr. Stoker?”

Thin, pale lips twist in a smirk.

“Possibly. Shall I list your transgressions? The public spectacle you put on, for one…”

She scoffs.

“Please. Nobody buys it, except a few die-hard fans. An’ anyhow, the Covenant oughta thank me for revivin’ our public image and savin’ it from that Twilight garbage fire. More effective than the Fright Night reboot.”

“But why do you do it in the first place? Can’t be the challenge.”

Bonnie’s smile borders on patronizing.

“That’s where you’re mistaken. Look at it as an exercise in self control. When you know you could ragdoll anybody from ringpost to ringpost without breakin’ a sweat, the challenge lies in not doin’ precisely that.”

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Today:

A Gulfstream G280 cuts smoothly through the night sky over Chicago; the solitary occupant, Bonnie Blue, gazing out the window with an air of nostalgia. Chicago was where her career had truly matured, where she had become a dynamic powerhouse -- multiple-time champion, dominant force in both singles and tag team wrestling, leader of the most successful faction in UCI -- where her dreams had been made reality, and at no hands other than her own. Chicago had paved the way for her to seize the WCF World Title, and with it, claim the heart of her fiercest rival.

Now she returns to the place of her origin; where the legend of Bonnie Blue took root and the Guardians were born. 

As the jet makes its final approach to one of O’Hare’s secluded, private runways, the Serpentine slides the shade down over the window and resumes her seat in a plush, leather chair. The laptop, open before her, reflects her own image back to her: an alluring, scale-patterned singlet clings to delicate curves; sea-blue eyes glitter with wicked intent; blood-red lips turn up in a predatory smile that reveals the barest glimpse of pointed fangs.

“Ex-Dubya-Eff. What can I say? This has been a long time comin’.

“But time -- I got plenty of that. And it looks like my reputation precedes me -- ‘cause as soon as little ol’ Bonnie Blue shows up, everybody worth a damn suddenly has somethin’ else to do. An’ I get it, honestly. Ain’t nobody wanna step into that ring with me, take a chance on gettin’ humiliated. That nice Gabe Reno, he might wrestle outta Vegas -- I did, too, for a minute -- but even he don’t wanna play these odds. Don’t wanna take a chance on damagin’ that pretty face.

“Ya boi Pete Gilmour ain’t takin’ the chance on his super-dick gettin’ superkicked. Trust me, though, sugar -- got nothin’ to worry about there. It ain’t as super as you think. I done my research, and even average is strainin’ the truth a bit.

“How about Oliver Last? Would his luck hold out between the ropes with me? How far can you push that good fortune?

“Seems to be a recurring theme. Y’all all rely on chance. Fortune. Playin’ the odds and hopin’ those odds don’t turn around and play you. But let me let y’all in on a little secret: you don’t get nowhere playin’ it safe. You don’t make a career of success an’ notoriety by fightin’ no-name nobodies like this… who is it I’m booked against?”

Bonnie pauses, brow furrowed in a theatrical show of trying to recall some fact of only marginal importance.

“Rhys, isn’t it? Rhys who? This is a guy so expendable, nobody even bothered givin’ him a last name. Nothin’ to go on the tombstone when I’m done buryin’ his worthless ass. The damn commercial break is gonna last longer than this match. Not much of an opportunity for me to show y’all what I’m truly capable of.

“But then again, I reckon y’all already know. Yeah, I’m aware of the rumors flyin’ around about me. Some of ‘em are mostly factual: how I became the Hardcore Queen, when I defeated the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the business at his own game in a London Street Fight; how I endured and overcame a Kevin Bishop possessed by Creeping Death in an electrified steel cage; how I, ultimately, brought low the very God of War himself, Odin Balfore.

“The other rumors, though, those ain’t necessarily ...accurate. Like that I ‘killed’ Jackson Caine during a match. Nah. I busted his skull wide open, just like I promised I would. But it was the complications afterward that killed him. Technically. Or the one where I supposedly ‘turned’ Emily Deschanel, just to get back at Sam Kidsgrove. Or that people sometimes disappear when I’m around, or that I may or may not have had something to do with some priest in Vegas.

“Let me assure y’all, there’s no evidence of any of that.”

Her viperous smile softens.

“Now, am I a good girl, the way I used to be? Am I here to be the salvation of this company? Have I come to save Chicago from a corrupt Mayor with his eyes on potential world domination? Nah, that shit’s all in the past. Neither am I here to destroy -- leave that to the monsters and the madmen; grand plans that never bear fruit, not really my style.

“I’m here, plain and simple, ‘cause I’m looking for something. I’ve scoured the world in pursuit of the finest competition. My journey has led me… here. 

“Try… not to disappoint me.”

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Stoker shrugs in a noncommittal way.

“To be honest, Bonnie, it’s not the wrestling we have a problem with. It’s some of your ...more eccentric behavior. Out of the ring.”

The Serpentine’s steady gaze holds his as she reaches for the pack of cards on the table and opens them up.

“Eccentric behavior?”

Her expression is a study in innocence as she shakes the deck from the cardboard sleeve and begins to shuffle.

“Your actions on Christmas Eve ruffled a lot of feathers at the Vatican. We had to make certain concessions -- concessions that haven’t made you any friends within the Covenant, either. You need to be more careful in the future.”

Without comment, Bonnie begins dealing cards; five apiece, before setting the deck aside. Stoker shoots her a curious glance.

“Draw,” she replies, by way of explanation. “You do play, don’t you Mr. Stoker?”

“What’s the ante?”

“Information. You could have me censured. Or worse. Why do you care what I do?”

“Aside from the fact that we’d rather avoid full-scale war with your husband? There’s a certain faction within the Covenant, small but powerful, who believe you hold the key to our future.”

He picks up his cards and glances at them, promptly discarding two. She deals from the top, then looks over her own hand carefully.

“Oooh. Sounds dramatic. Care to elaborate?”

“If you win the hand. Maybe.”

She smirks and drops three cards, swiftly dealing herself more.

“Call.”

Stoker lays out his hand: a pair, low cards. Bonnie flashes him a wicked grin and puts her cards down. Her cards are also low, but she holds two pairs. He doesn’t seem disappointed.

“Personally, I’m not one to go in for the whole vampire Messiah thing. It’s a nice story, but it’s about as likely as Jesus Christ himself walking through these doors right now. But what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s what they believe.”

“Which is…?”

“Deal.”

With a shrug, Bonnie reshuffles the deck and tosses out five new cards. Stoker sweeps them into his hand immediately. After a moment’s consideration, he lays one down. Bonnie deals him a replacement before turning her attention to her own hand, her mind furiously adding up the things he’s told her, wondering about what he left out.

“What I’m hearin’, Mr. Stoker, is that some highly placed people -- who wish to remain anonymous for now -- think I might be some kinda...second comin’ of your blood god?”

“Cards on the table, Mrs. Rabid.”

She spreads them out: An Ace, a Queen, and three numbered cards, all mismatched suits. Stoker’s holding a minor straight.

“Too bad. Well, as I said, you’ll need to behave yourself from now on. Another priest massacred like the last one, and there will be consequences -- for all of us.”

Stoker begins to rise from his chair, only to stop abruptly at the iron grip of Bonnie’s hand around his wrist.

“We’re not done yet. Best two out of three. I win, you spill everything. You win, I’ll be a good girl and play along.”

Her smile reveals a double pair of pointed fangs; one pair prominent and sharp, the other smaller, but still effective. He hesitates, suddenly struck with a wave of dread. Shaking it off, he forces a smile of his own and sits back down.

“Best two out of three, then. As you wish.”

Once more, she shuffles the cards, offering them to him to cut. He raps the deck with a knuckle to indicate his satisfaction with the thoroughness of her work. Quickly, she deals out their respective hands for a final time. Stoker studies his cards carefully. Bonnie glances at hers. Four nines stare back at her. She can’t believe her luck, and for several moments, she weighs her options.

To lose would mean acquiescence to whatever Stoker asks. Victory would assure her every detail -- or at least, every detail Stoker is aware of. Which, on second thought, might be limited. Perhaps it would benefit her more to play along anyway. 

“You know what he was doing? The priest?”

“Aside from the usual, you mean?”

His sardonic reply yields no lines to read between as he discards two from his hand.

“He offered a cure. For our condition. Claimed he could give me back the sun.”

“Could he?”

Stoker’s expression betrays him. He doesn’t know. Bonnie shakes her head as she tosses him two replacement cards.

“I checked it out before I confronted him, Mr. Stoker. He’d already provided his ‘cure’ to a handful of others. They all died as a result. I wasn’t about to let that stand.”

Stoker gazes at her over the fanned-out cards as he slips the new ones into his hand. One eyebrow moves up, just perceptibly. Bonnie can tell he’s reevaluating her. Decision made, she discards two of her own and deals herself two more.

“Perhaps you’re something of a savior after all. Call.”

With a confident smirk, Bonnie lays down a trio of nines alongside a seven and a four.

“Three of a kind. Your turn.”

His expression doesn’t change as he puts down three eights. Then, before she can say anything further, he adds in a pair of Aces. The infamous Dead Man’s Hand. They both gaze at the table in silence for a moment. Bonnie stands, and he follows her lead, accepting the hand she offers in apparent defeat.

“Well, Mr. Stoker, it appears you’ve bested me -- a claim that can only be made by a select few. You played my game; it’s only fair I abide by the rules of yours.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Rabid, I think you’ll find the outcome one of mutual benefit. I’ll be in touch.”

Without another word, Stoker turns and walks out of the room. He doesn’t see the viperous smile slowly turning up her crimson lips. Moments later, Bonnie Blue is back in her penthouse suite, gazing out in quiet contemplation over the neon cityscape.