Windy City Stories -- Part One: Who Killed Diego Garcia?

Part One: Who Killed Diego Garcia?

A deafening roar thunders through the air.

Arms thrust skyward, clutching newly-won belts, Polar and Bonnie exchange a smile; exhausted but triumphant.

Silence falls, sudden as death.

And without warning, she is alone.

An enormous hooded serpent, black and red, encircles the ring in its coils.

Light gleams on irridescent scales as the snake draws back with a hiss, hood flared, fangs bared, and prepared to strike.

Bonnie turns to flee; the canvas yields like molasses, trapping her.

Terror-stricken, she is helpless to do more than watch as the serpent sheds its form;

becomes a man, coldly handsome;

chillingly familiar.

Dispassionate, reptilian gaze fixed on her, he moves

viper-quick, his hand around her throat,

and --

With a start, Bonnie Blue tumbled out of a hammock strung between two filing cabinets and onto the wood floor of the Sloshed Pit's back office.


"Goddamn gravity," she growled, rubbing at a bruised knee.


Shaking off the lingering malaise of an inexplicable nightmare, Bonnie got to her feet and immediately began to search for coffee. The quest took her out to the bar, where several customers had simply passed out wherever they'd happened to be. Alex Richards was snoring contentedly, stretched out across one of the pool tables, thankfully visible. The young woman found a coffeemaker in the kitchen, and rolled herself a joint while she waited for it to brew. That first hit cleared the fog, settled her nerves, brought reality -- or what passed for it these days -- into focus.


By the time the coffee was ready, Bonnie was feeling somewhat more sanguine. She disappeared back upstairs with a steaming cup, and opened up her laptop. With a notion of posting something about the tag titles she and Cam would soon claim, she logged into Twitter. Something brief. To the point. But clever. Then again, clever was hard to do before the THC and the caffeine interacted and catalyzed her brain into full cognition. Her feed was awash in posts from fans, enough that she couldn't possibly reply to all of them; what interested Bonnie just now was anything that came from colleagues and rivals. For days, she had expected something from Stiletto -- typical mean girl bullshit, if experience was any measure; especially Thursday. Was it any wonder Jared Holmes had disappeared, when that's what he had to come home to?


The last thing Bonnie Blue expected, however, was the message that appeared right in the middle of her Twitter feed; that made her breath catch in her throat and her heart stop; that brought home with full force the terror of the dream that had wakened her.




Bonnie slammed the laptop shut. Stark fear was followed swiftly by a rage as irrational as it was impotent.


Not him! Not here, not now!


For the barest instant, she was seized by the urge to smash the computer into a million pieces, as if that action would somehow negate the existence of a man she had hoped to never encounter again.


The Ripper.


The Serpent.


Fucking Vandal Savage-looking motherfucker.


Shaking hands hesitated as she reached for the joint smoldering in an ashtray on the desk, reminded abruptly of that night -- but she'd already smoked. Were her reflexes any slower now? Senses dulled? How would she know?


Damnit, Bonnie, pull yourself together! Y'oughta be focused on them tag titles.


The young woman took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then, Bonnie relit the joint and took a long toke. Maybe he wasn't the same. This was a different reality; perhaps this was a different Johnny Rabid. She couldn't be certain how closely their experiences lined up. He could as easily be native to this universe as he could have been transferred across the dimensional divide, like she and Polar -- and a few others -- had been. No sense making an assumption without knowing all the facts. Discretion, as the saying went, was the better part of valor. So she opened the laptop once more and read the message carefully, as though she could glean some deeper meaning hidden behind the few simple words.


However, she could discern nothing beyond a vague sense of menace. Clearly, a reply was expected; Bonnie was wise enough by now to understand she shouldn't tip her hand just yet. She went with the most neutral response she could think of, and hoped it would suffice. Maybe he'd just lose interest and leave her alone.


Bonnie noticed the drop in temperature before he spoke, but still the sound of her partner's voice made her jump.


"Whatup, homegirl? You gonna pass that thing, or what?"


"Shit, Cam," she replied, handing the doobie over, "don't sneak up on a girl like that."


"Why?" He gave her a mischievous grin. "Watchin' porn? Anything good?"


"Damn. I wish. Nah, just fuckin' with Twitter."


"Fuck Twitter," he said.


While the Polar Phantasm's tone was dismissive, his attention was keen as ever. He hadn't missed the stricken look on her face, nor how quickly she'd composed herself to hide it. Cameron took a hit off the joint and passed it back, his brow furrowed as he considered, then shook his head. Whatever had gotten under her skin, pushing the issue wouldn't help. Bonnie was as stubborn as Reb had ever been. She'd tell him when she was ready, and not a moment before.


"We can't keep crashing in a bar," Polar pointed out, in a less-than-subtle change of subject. "Got a couple of real estate listings I want to check out before we hit the gym."


Bonnie fought back a yawn and rose from the creaky chair. "Yeah, a'ight. Let me just get changed. Hey, did that weed seem a little off to you?"


Polar took another pull from the joint, analyzing. After several moments, he exhaled. "That's some pretty good shit. What's wrong?"


"Nothin'," she replied, with an unconvincing smile. "Just bein' paranoid, I reckon."


And before he could press her for answers, she left the room, a bundle of clothes tucked under her arm. The Polar Phantasm stared after his tag partner, concern etched across his face.


It was early afternoon by the time Bonnie Blue and the Polar Phantasm reached the gym. House hunting for the Guardians wasn't a simple matter -- they had a mad scientist, a small child, and a very large biomechanical dragon to consider, after all. The only place that held much promise was an old fire station, though the soundness of the structure left something to be desired; particularly when a section of brick wall collapsed the moment they crossed the threshhold. That, however, was the furthest thing from either athlete's mind.


Polar spotted his partner on the bench press while they talked. Bonnie eyed her biceps with a slight frown.


"Damnit... I think I'm gettin' bigger. Cam, lighten my load a little bit, would ya?" Bonnie asked.


"I would," he replied, removing plates from either end of the bar, "but you won't talk to me about it."


"What? You mean this morning? Look, I'm fine now. Just a little overwhelmed. Everything's all shiny here, Captain."


He arched a silver-white eyebrow skeptically as he helped Bonnie with the barbell.


"I was distracted," Bonnie admitted. "A little. Crazy shit happened in the other universe, y'know? Not like it don't here, but... diff'rent. It's fine now. My focus is exactly where it belongs. The UCI Tag Titles are as good as ours. Them Stiletto bitches ain't gonna know what hit 'em."





Refuerzo del Oro stood before a backdrop of black and gold, a microphone-studded podium in front of him, and stared out at the crowd that had gathered. The sun shone overhead like a spotlight. He adjusted his tie, straightened his lucha mask. Security men surrounded the stage in a show of force, while a couple of cholos in ill-fitting suits stood by, failing to be entirely unobtrusive.


"My people!" he called out to them; and they cheered in reply. "Chicanos. Latinos. Hispanicos. ...Gringos! Today, from all walks of life, we come together; united as one People, in common purpose!"


Another outpouring of support from the crowd. They loved him already for his work in the ring; loved him more since he'd begun a one-man campaign against the rampant street violence between rival gangs. Ironic, since his employment came directly from the Latin Kings; but as he pointed out to his fans, it was one thing to fight honorably in the ring, and quite another to engage in street warfare.


"Today, my friends," continued del Oro, "marks nearly a week since Mayor Sanchez made his decree forbidding us to practice our spirituality. Not just Christians -- Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews -- anyone of any faith. And this has driven a wedge into our community. But I beg you, my friends..."


He hesitated for dramatic impact, while the gathered audience waited in anticipatory silence. Whatever this hero asked of them, they would give it.


"I beg you to stop the rioting. Stop the looting. Please. This is still a civilized country -- one in which certain freedoms are guaranteed by Law; among those, freedom of religion. Even now, dozens of lawyers from all across this great City are preparing an appeal based on the un-Constitutionality of the new law. For now, my people, we must persev -- "


Squealing tires interrupted del Oro's speech. From around the corner, a massive, wheeled juggernaut sped onto the street and scattered the crowd. The vehicle screeched to a stop, and four men in black got out. Nobody saw them clearly, but witnesses would later all agree that they were definitely Asian, possibly Chinese. Gunfire rent the morning air, shredded the Latin Kings backdrop, put four security guys on the ground. Del Oro ran, but a bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him into the path of another. Arms flung out with the force of the shots in an awkward parody of the crucified Christ, as dozens more holes appeared simultaneously, like some sacrilegious stigmata. By the time he hit the ground -- and the black Escalade took off -- the man who had been Refuerzo del Oro was barely recognizable.




Diego Garcia -- better known as luchador Refuerzo del Oro -- was laid to rest on Saturday; and, in direct contravention of the new City Ordinance against all religious observances, a service was held at St. Anselm Catholic Church on Michican Avenue. Mourners arrived in droves. They carried images of the deceased wrestler like icons. They lit candles and prayed. By the time the funeral was over, some of them were claiming he'd perfomed miracles and demanding that Diego Garcia be canonized.


While the police investigation was ongoing, early reports indicated that the local Triad gang -- the White Lotus -- had been responsible for the shooting. In response to the crime, the Mayor had distributed his jackbooted thugs throughout the City to enforce his bizarre, tyrannical edict. Diego Garcia had pled with the people to stop the violence, but peaceful demonstrations quickly turned riot -- to be quelled by armored SWAT teams with extreme prejudice. It was martial law in all but name.







WINDY CITY STORIES

Series conceived by Bonnie Blue, David Sanchez and the Polar Phantasm
Series directed by the Polar Phantasm
Episode One: Who Killed Diego Garcia?
Episode written by Bonnie Blue
'The Guardians' created by Bonnie Blue, Jay Omega and the Polar Phantasm
'The Syndicate' created by David Sanchez and Taylor Wright
(Come home soon, Spaceman.)


[(c) United Championship Infinite 2016. All rights reserved.]