If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

There is no line. Good and evil are matters of perception. How far are you willing to go for success?

Is there such a thing? Does a title make you successful? Or does it just make you an asshole with gold? In the case of the WCF World Champion, I think we know the answer to that. But who cares about him?

This is UCI. This is relevant. That other place is the past. One more time, and that's it.

Never again.

I'll stand with Zombie McMorris and Kevin Bishop against the debauched forces of a derelict company, prove one more time just how superior we are.

And then I'm done with all that bullshit. The Dub never wanted me in the first place, and wants me even less now. Fuck that place. Fuck everyone in it. They made it plain enough, and I wouldn't bother going back for one last match, but my people -- my United Championship Infinite family -- asked me to. That is literally the only reason I'm participating in Hellimination.

Once that's over with, no reason on Earth could compel me to return.

UCI is my home. UCI is where I belong. Why waste my time toiling for a company that elevates only the most mediocre of talents? Case in point -- John Rabid is now the face of WCF. Before that, it was Stephen Singh, a man my Guardians and I just embarassed at Corey Black's legendary XIII. But Bonnie Blue? Closest I ever got to gold over there was that one time I was tossed into a popularity contest, er, I mean, People's Championship match -- just to round out the number of warm bodies in the ring. Shit, it wasn't even for the belt. It was only for a shot at it.

Then you look at the men and women who have held the UCI World Title, and it reads like a who's who of professional wrestling: Crow McMorris, Howard Black, Alex Richards, Andre Holmes, ZMAC, Kevin Bishop -- and of course, Bonnie Blue. Why would I accept the dubious challenge of so many inferior competitors at that other place?

John Rabid? Give me a fucking break. That stuck-up, tea-swilling coward won't even commit to a one-on-one match with me. It's gotta be one of these infamous World Clusterfuck Federation gimmick matches; puts the odds in his favor that he won't even cross my path. Dude goes out of his way to antagonize me, then when I challenge him, he backs down while throwing up some smokescreen about how I'm not on his level.

He's right.

I'm so far above his level, it ain't even a contest. That's why I'm in UCI and he ain't.

United Championship Infinite is elite.

World Championship Federation... not so much.


"Ya feel me?" Bonnie asked, taking a hit from the blunt as she gazed expectantly at her robot companion.

Boudlebot frowned as its processors tried to make sense of her words.

"WCF is a cesspit full of trashcan jobbers who aren't even worthy of a ticket to Connector City!" it announced, downing a can of Whoop-Ass^TM (product placement) beer.

"Perfect," Bonnie said, satisfied. "Of course, none of that's gonna matter. Sunday night, it all ends. Monday night, I take my World Title back to become a two-time World Champion, and twice a Triple-Crown winner. And once again, a dual champion, like I was always meant to be."

"Boring!" said the robot. "Where's the real liquor?"

Seated on the edge of the pier, bare toes skimming the surface of the water, Bonnie reached into the duffel bag at her side and produced a bottle of Alex Richards' world-famous Zim-Quila. The robot promptly snatched it from her hands and chugged it down, unleashing an almighty belch as the bottle emptied.

"Boudlebot, what is your prime directive?" asked the young woman.

"Party. My prime directive is to PAAAR-TAYYY. Shake dat ass. Watch yo'self! SHUT UP!"

And with that, the drunken mechanical man began to gyrate its hips, pelvic thrusting its way along the pier like a lost Mustache Brother. Bonnie Blue hopped up just in time to avoid being run over, as the robot fell into the lake with a massive splash. Kneeling, she looked over the edge, but with only the light of a half moon behind her, there was little she could see in the inky blackness of the water. Sea-blue eyes picked up a trail of bubbles, however, that meandered around the lake at random... until a figure emerged on the opposite shore. It adjusted a plastic goalie mask over its face, then turned to wave at her, dim moonlight dancing on the edge of a blade brandished in an artificial hand. The Daughter of Time stopped watching when the robot started to twerk. Nobody needs to see that.

When she turned back to look again, Boudlebot had vanished. She wasn't worried. He'd come back when his battery switched to reserve power; Bonnie had installed a safeguard that prevented the android from retaining more than an hour's worth of energy at a time. Until she removed the inhibitor, Boudlebot would be dependent on the external charging unit, which required both herself and Alex Richards to activate. It was the only way to prevent the chaos of another rampage.

Bonnie Blue checked the time on her phone, took one final hit of her blunt, and tossed the roach into the murky waters. She hefted the duffel bag onto one shoulder, content in the reassuring weight of her UCI Tag Team title within, and made her way back along an overgrown path through a stand of oaks. The trail widened, opening up to a clearing, where bunkhouses were arranged in a semicircle around a central flagpole. She passed a signpost pointed out the directions to a number of summer-camp activities, veered slightly left, and strode confidently through the door of the second cabin.

Looks like I'm the first one here.

She slung her duffel bag down on a cot and sat, one leg curled beneath her. Bonnie eased her tag belt from the bag and turned it over so that the gold faceplate was down. With a soft cloth and a tin of mink oil, she set to work rubbing the conditioner deep into the leather, thoughts drifting at the mindless task.

This doesn't feel like the same achievement anymore. It's not because I lack pride in it -- to the contrary, I love being a tag champion, and there's nobody I'd rather be champion with than Alex Richards. Ain't because another prize is dangling in front of us, either. One way or another, that World Title is coming home to the Guardians. Won't be no hard feelings, so long as one of us gets it -- at least in a big-picture kinda way. I'm gonna be a little salty if I'm not the one walking out of Killing Floor with that big belt around my waist, but I'll get over it.

No, the problem is Andre Holmes and the Society.

A world-weary sigh shook her slender frame. Bonnie attacked the leather with a renewed vigor, jaw clenched in long-simmering fury.

That's why it feels wrong. Last year, we were behind his ascent up that mountain -- he climbed right to the top at the inaugural Killing Floor match, and we cheered him on. I successfully defended my Intercontinental Title that night in a Monster's Ball match. All things considered, it was a good night for the Guardians. We were united. We were victorious.

Now? We've been torn apart. Me, Alex, and Preecha all fighting for the same things -- to secure the World Title, and to put an end to Andre Holmes once and for all. Both of those things have to be achieved in order for us to claim a victory this time around. I hate what I'm going to have to do, but I'm prepared to do it.

The door swung open. Bonnie glanced up, a half-smile on her lips as she recognized the bulky form of her tag partner.

"Hey," she greeted with a nod.

"Hey," Alex replied, glancing around. "Preecha and Armand are late again?"

Bonnie's reply was an elaborate shrug. Alex shook his head at the spartan surroundings.

"Grim," he observed. "This is supposed to be a summer camp..."

The young woman nodded her agreement, glad of the distraction. They chatted, careful to avoid the topic of Killing Floor, while Bonnie continued buffing oil into the leather belt. It wasn't long before the door opened again, this time to admit Preecha Kamon and Armand de la Fontaine. An undercurrent of strain showed beneath the Frenchman's toothy smile, a stiffness in his step as he crossed the room.

"Hahaha! No worries my friends!" he said cheerfully. "I was having trouble with some inopportune technological difficulties and lost track of the time! It wasn’t until Preecha reminded me that we were on our way."

Rather than join his comrades, Preecha hung back to observe the interplay, half-obscured in the shadows hugging the far wall.

Armand cleared his throat and continued: "Going to be honest, the place was a little out of the way. But, better than being stuck in that empty church all day."

"Only place we could be absolutely certain the Society can't listen in. Nice and remote," Alex told him.

Scratching the back of his head, Armand laughed appreciatively. He understood surveillance and how to avoid it.

"Haha, Should have figured that," he agreed. "I guess my mind hasn’t been on The Society as of late."

Bonnie's fist clenched at the mention of their deadliest rivals.

"Well, they sure as hell been on mine," she growled.

Armand looked quizzically at Bonnie before sighing with a smile.

"Ah, yes. Forgive me Ma Petite Louve! In my older age, a man gets distracted much easier than he used to and I feel as if I have been distracted to my limits! But you are right. Today we are here for one reason and one reason only. And that reason is…"

"Killing Floor," Alex supplied.

Armand fired a finger gun at Richards.

"Bingo! We are here to strategize, so let us begin!"

"Listen," Bonnie began, "I know how important Killin' Floor is -- I want that title around my waist as much as y'all do -- but the one overridin' thing on my mind is Andre Holmes. An' I'm gonna be honest with you guys... I sorta want to kill him. Like for real. Not just bury him in the ring; stomp him down to the undercard where his treacherous ass belongs, nah. That ain't enough."

Agitation prompts her to stand, restless energy moving the young woman to pace along the aisle between cots.

"He knew! He knew what kind of threat the Society was! After they took his family, he should have come to us. He chose to turn on the Guardians -- on his own kind -- instead! It's time to stop looking at Andre Holmes as a comrade and see him for what he is: a mass-murdering lunatic. The things he's done on behalf of the Society make him a monster. But he's our monster. Our responsibility."

Her pace slowed; stopped as her thoughts took a turn.

"My responsibility. Killing Floor is our chance to strike a blow against the Society, maybe the only real chance we're going to get. We take their greatest weapon from them at Killing Floor. Droppin' Andre will be our coup de grace. Once he's out of the way, we can pick off the rest of the Society at our leisure. And I don't want either of y'all interferin'. Holmes may be a monster -- but so am I. At Killing Floor, I'm bringin' that message home. You don't fuck with Bonnie Blue. You don't fuck with a Guardian."

As quickly as it had flared, her anger was spent. Bonnie sat once more upon her cot and lifted her tag title into her lap, fingers tracing the sinuous form of the dragon embossed on the golden plate. Her partner was talking now, and try as she might to focus on what Alex was saying, her thoughts continued to drift. They turned from her anger at Andre Holmes' perhaps-inevitable betrayal to a churning turmoil of opposing emotions: her love for Wade foremost in her mind, but fear, too. Of him. Or, more accurately, of not knowing the extent of John Rabid's hold over him.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cool October air settled in her heart as she wondered about that. How deep did Wade's love go? Uncomfortable with the question, Bonnie's mind turned to another train of thought.

Seriously, what the fuck did I do to earn the shade Rabid's been throwing my way lately? All I wanted was to make amends, put things right between us. I knew we weren't gonna be friends, but, y'know.... conquer the hate or whatever. Figured all the shit we went through in Denmark would have meant something. I'm just trying to earn his forgiveness, but he just wants to hold onto some imagined grudge...

Three heads whipped around as a piercing shriek rent the air, someplace out in the dark surrounding woods. Preecha shot a questioning glance to Armand, who signed a hasty explanation, even as Bonnie and Alex rushed through the door and disappeared in the night.




{Bonnie Blue} How does it feel, Andre? How does it feel to know you're so easily controlled, that the barest hint of a threat to your family, and you become a whimperin' dog, beggin' not to be kicked? The entirety of your will is centered in the well-being of your wife -- the one, I should remind you, that you cheated on your first wife with; and how is she, by the way? -- and your kids. The same kids who, I'm sure, ask a lot of awkward questions about why you have this odd tendency to pick fights with women you can easily brutalize, rather than men who can stand toe-to-toe with you.

Well, maybe they don't. Your boys don't have the language yet, and I'm sure you've intimidated your girls into total submission. That's the kinda guy you are, Andre. No matter how many excuses I made for you, we all knew the truth, deep down. You're the worst kind of mysoginist. Can't even be honest about it. That's like a Nazi tryin' to cover up what he is by sayin' White Nationalist instead of White Supremacist. And honestly, Andre, ever since you sold your soul to the Society -- what are you but a one-man Gestapo?

It makes me ashamed to say we were ever friends.

As a matter of fact, these days, it's hard to remember that time.

Do you? You remember those early days over at the Dub? The whole world was against us, with #beachkrew leadin' the charge -- you an' me stood together an' faced that onslaught; survived it, overcame it, moved on to both become World Champions in our own right. Do you remember how many battles we waged, side-by-side, first as Rebellution, an' after Mexico, as Guardians?

I've been by your side every step of the way, Andre. Every. Fuckin'. Step. You're as bad as John Rabid, usin' other folks to lift you up, then grindin' 'em into the dirt when you're done usin' 'em. An' just like I'm gonna spend Sunday night makin' that snake in the grass pay for what he did; I'm gonna do the same damn thing to you on Monday night. That title? Yeah, I want it -- more'n anything else.

Except revenge.

Ocean-blue eyes glitter with a rage barely restrained; her jaw clenches; her fist tightens. She sneers, and for an instant, the lighting gives the illusion of a predator's teeth behind her pink-glossed lips.

{Bonnie Blue} There's one man in all the world I hate more than you right now, Andre; but after Hellimination, I never have to see him again so long as I live. At least his treachery was inevitable. He can't help himself. Wouldn't know loyalty if it bit him on the ass. Cold-blooded piece of shit. But you, Andre -- you do know better. You understood honor. You had a moral code, once.

You were a Guardian.


{Bonnie Blue} No more.

You're past redemption, Andre. I can't save you. No one can.

But I can release you. Deep down inside, in that empty spot where your soul used to be, I know you feel it. Way down in the blackest pit of what was once your heart, you know how wrong this is. You're locked into a course of action you can't veer away from. So I'm gonna do the only thing I can, Andre.

I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.

I don't mean that metaphorically. I ain't sayin' I'm just gonna humiliate you in that Killin' Floor match.

Remember that Society agent you brought me for interrogation that one time? How I got ...a little carried away?


{Bonnie Blue} Yeah, this ain't gonna be like that. This time, I'm in full control. It's gonna be methodical. Calculated. An' I won't lie, Andre -- part of me will enjoy every second of it. Your pain is my pleasure, so I'm gonna take it as slow as circumstance allows. When I'm done with you, you traitorous fuck, that canvas is gonna look like a Jackson Pollock paintin', ya feel me?

Mmhmm. I know you do, 'cause you're gonna try your damnedest to do the same to me. You once called me sister -- but then again, so did they, briefly -- an' now, here we are, set to murder each other. You wanna take me down, because... why, exactly? Because you failed your family, but you put the blame squarely on my shoulders. An' I am damned tired of men blamin' me for their mistakes, partic'ly where their wives are concerned. At least yours ain't the bride of Dracula or whatever. Unless you're one of 'em, too. You did get a little squirrelly when we was in Transylvania last year. Or did you think I hadn't noticed?

That was the first time you betrayed us, Andre. I watched the security footage, later. You were playin' both sides of the field; an' I wonder, what woulda happened if things had edged in favor of the other side? How flexible was your loyalty in those days? But you're probably missing the most important thing, "brother" of mine: I kept your secret. Never told a soul you were skulkin' around the catacombs beneath the castle, nor what you was doin' down there. None of the other Guardians know about the pact you made with a bunch of nosferatu vermin.

None of the others know how readily you'd have sold us out then -- though judging by your actions, I doubt they'd be surprised.

Y'know what I think, Andre?


{Bonnie Blue} I think this ain't got shit to do with your family.

I think they were a convenient excuse, an' you been dyin' for a reason -- any reason, no matter how friendly -- to sell the Guardians out, to turn on us. To get us out of the way, because you can't handle the competition. You couldn't give two shits less about the women you marry, so long as you can father a kid or two on them; then move on to the next conquest. That ain't love, Andre. In that respect, even Rabid's a better man than you. That ought to make you stop an' take stock of the sorta man you've turned into, when I say that reptile is a better human bein' than you are.

Too far gone for that. Maybe you always were, an' my sentimental ass just couldn't see it. Because my weakness, Andre -- an' you know this as well as all my other enemies -- is that I want to see the best in people... even him. But especially in you, my brother.

I'm lookin', Andre; lookin' for anything even remotely decent in you, an' failin' to find it. I gotta stop wastin' my time, tryin' to find the heart in a villain like you. Not when you've made it clear there ain't one. Let the Society do what they want with your family; it's a far better fate than lettin' 'em see what you've become.

Y'know, Andre, I went to bat for you more times than I can count. Every time some smartass reporter asks how I feel about working with a womanizing, domestic-abusing shitbag, I told them exactly what they could do with themselves -- because I didn't want to believe you were the man they categorized you as. But here we are, you and me, and it's my turn. Like Erin Fausse or Celeste Mallory, right? You think I'm gonna be as easy to put down as they were?

Are you forgettin' Infinity?

That time I let you knock me out with that stupid thrust kick because I thought you stood a better chance against Dustin Beaver than I did... and what'd you do with that opportunity?

You fucking wasted it! I coulda won Infinity, but I took a knee and let you have what shoulda been an assured victory -- when I should have been the one goin' on to face Kevin Bishop for his World Title after that night! None of that really matters anymore, though. It's too late for recriminations. Now's the time for vengeance, Andre. Mine, not yours. Better make your peace with whatever gods you believe in, 'cause Monday night, I'm gonna take you apart in that ring, an' ain't shit you gonna do to stop me.


The shrill scream came again, nearer this time, and Bonnie Blue hurried in the direction from which it had come. Enhanced abilities lent her extra speed, and soon she came upon the source of distress: huddled on the leaf-littered ground, hugging its knees to its chest and rocking back and forth, was Boudlebot. Surrounding the traumatized android were four teenagers weilding half-burnt hot dogs on pointed sticks, slathered in thick globs of crimson. Ketchup.

"Boudlebot!" called Bonnie as she emerged from the treeline. "Override protocol: Coffee Cakes!"

All at once, the android rose from the ground and stood upright, arms locked at its sides and its face going slack as it entered into standby mode. Startled at the young woman's sudden appearance, the teenagers split, dropping their hot dogs and running off in four different directions. Bonnie rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she kicked the offending meat products out of the way.

"Come on, you dumb Boudle. Let's get you to your charging port."

Obediently, the robot followed along behind as she retraced her steps through the woods of Camp Crystal Lake. Hidden behind a blood-spattered hockey mask, unseen but all-seeing, another pair of eyes watched them go....