The kicker of that day was the shot gun, for sure. She lugged it around with her for the whole time. Children and mothers cringed as she went to buy milk and eggs at the local market, shot gun draped across the baby-buggy bench as she passed the Cheerios and cornflakes, picked out a box of Shreddies and dropped it into the cart. Cornflakes for him. Thoughtful, she thought; after all, it was Valentines day tomorrow. Bronwen pulled up to the cashier, pulled her headphones an increment away from her ears and grunted to the cashier as she handed over a wad of bills and crammed her headphones back down in one fluid motion. Rifle over the shoulder, she bungeed the groceries oddly onto the back of the Norton in the parking lot before rumbling along on her way, doubt starting to tickle the edges of her mind about her day. She was pretty sure it wasn’t him, but what if she was wrong. Shouldn’t have flipped out like that if it was him. Oh well, he knew she was difficult and spiny to love anyways by this point. If he didn’t, he was more of a fucking chump than she gave him credit for after all. A stupid chump that she couldn’t imagine losing.

She lit up a smoke at an intersection and sighed. Something was wrong about the whole scene, she just didn’t know what.

Bronwen stands up and wipes blood, brain detritus and flecks of skull off her sleeve. Turns, and stares at the men for a second before shooting off the remaining rounds in the gun at their feet. Plumes of blood exploded where her aim was true, and she tossed the gun onto the ground and made for the parking lot. The thugs made it out just in time to see the first fiery explosion of the first bike gas tank going up from a 00 buck slug. She fired the second barrel into a classic Harley with a cunt painted on the odometer, and quickly reloaded, popping the smoking shells out onto the gravel in scant seconds before unloading two more rounds. Two more bikes dropped before she turned on the bikers spilling out of the bar. Bronwen loaded the birdshot, shot blindly from the waist. Screams of agony filled the crisp evening air, smelling of burnt gasoline, and she laughed harshly, climbing onto the Norton and pulling back out onto the highway. She could see the glow of the flames for two miles in her side view mirror as the bike carcasses lit up the starry night sky.   North, she figured. Her gut said North.

“It’s another prank call in the middle of the night…why don’t you put up a fight and dream on…”

The house was absolutely desolate when she pulled up to unload the groceries. It was never this still. Even the air had a deathly stink of tension and unease, she felt, as she checked all the rooms restlessly, slamming doors or shoving them open. The place was a sty, they should really call the cleaning lady. She frowned at the bathroom. Pubic hairs all over the damn place, sick. They’d have to stop inviting Walsh over if he was going to continue to rub his genitals so vigorously in the bathroom.

In the kitchen, she pulled Shane’s carton of Marlboros out of the freezer and jammed it into her backpack, ran back to her room and threw a few tee-shirts in, and checked her drawers for the Colt. Checked the nightstand. Checked the bathroom. The back of the toilet. Bronwen searched  all through the house, in all the nooks and crannies. What she found was dust, old roaches, spare change, and a used condom, but no sparkling long barreled Colt .45.

“Goddamn…” she remembers muttering, rubbing her forehead. Hopefully no school children found it on their way home. God knows six year olds were veritable fields of fecundity when it came to being serial killers in the making.  

She drives solid through the night, feeling herself sober up as the warm wind slices over her bare arms, the Norton casting the only light on the desert highway past the demonic sliver of moon. The road curves and waves, the bike following its lines fluidly, but for the occasional correction for the variety of wildlife making use of what little heat remained in the asphalt so as to continue hunting for the night. She crossed the state border going North before sunrise, having pulled on her jacket by then as the dew point hit.   A few miles into the place, she stops at a roadside diner and meanders in, pulling off her helmet and tossing it into a booth.

“Coffee please,” she calls, heading off to the bathroom.

She wanders through the neighborhood for a bit, still feeling unsettled and frankly, a bit nauseas from the anxiety that has pervaded her shroom trip. It’s not the greatest neighborhood, but the guys had liked the proximity to the go-cart place that the house offered. She wandered into a play ground and surveyed it nonchalantly before coming to a dead halt.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” she’d yelled angrily, striding forward, arms limber at her sides, tattoos glowing brightly in the sun, fingers tensed.

“Say something you dumb shit,” she shouted again, “don’t just stare at me.”

Bronwen comes to a stop and looks down menacingly before she snatches the gun out of the baby’s tiny fists. The baby giggles and flops onto its back, and starts playing with its toes as Bronwen takes a closer look at the cold metal object now out of the infant’s grasp.

“God fucking dammit…” she moans, tossing the gun to the side. The baby sees where it lands, coos and starts crawling towards the firearm.

It was a really shitty .25 with a mysteriously extended barrel, corroded from moisture, low priced sex,  and murder.

“Stupid baby,” she growls, nudging it out of the way with her foot and leaving the park. This was clearly a waste of time and instinct.

The Norton was running on empty, so Bronwen fills it. She’s standing at the pump and she can hear two kids scuffing their way up to the gas station door, talking about the fight.

“My dad says that Shane Clemmens is way better than Sean Walsh any day,” one boy asserts.

“Yeah, but Shane Clemmens is a pussy. He’s too much of a wildcard. A contradiction. Fans love to hate unreliable heroes when they lose. If Shane Clemmens ever lost a huge title again, he’d have to start from scratch to get that kinda notoriety again. What the hell does your dad know anyways? He’s a dumb ‘ol alcoholic! Sean Walsh is awesome. I just got his newest poster for my bedroom.”

“Yeah well…. your sister also said you also just learned how to masturbate. How convenient,” the other kid sneers back, wiping his grimy nose and laughing.

“Hey, how’d you….”

She sighs and pushes past the brats to pay for the gas. They stare at her as she passes.

“Hey, are you….?” One timidly ventures, pointing at her.

“A little known female wrestler who hates kids?” She fires back with a fierce scowl.

“It totally is her dude,” the other kid squeals. “Omifuckingod, can I have your autograph?”

She frowns. Child fans were such facetious little pukes.

“Piss off kid,” she growls, pushing him out of the way.

“Hey lady,” the boy calls out, “at least both of us can agree that you won’t win. My dad says you’re just a flash in the pan.”

The kid’s neck is in her hands before he can even move an inch and she presses him up against the wall with her forearm, his feet dangling a foot off the ground while his buddy gazes up at them, slack jawed in shock.

“Ye really need to start paying attention to a healthier role model,” she intimidates lowly. “Plus, isn’t your dad an alcoholic? Jesus Christ kid. Go home and take a few pictures of him sprawled out and covered in his own shit and puke, and hang those in your bedroom next time you feel like masturbating. As far as pleasure goes, that’s probably all you have to look forward to in the future anyways—might as well get off on yourself while ye still can, eh?”

She drops him and he falls to his little overcalled ass and is sobbing and crying. The other kid stares up at her in total dismay.

“What did that even mean? I don’t know even know what that means,” he starts saying aloud.

The other kid sobs into his friends shirt, “w-we’ll go ask my m-mom, she’ll know m-maybe. Owwww…my neck hurts. Ms. O’Connor, you’re a fucking jerk.”

A jerk?  There is no simple misnomer like this word to name the malignancy I plan to bring into the ring with you two pieces of over-trained meat. By now, you think, no, are positively cocky and assured that you’ve got this. You’ve won so many in the past that a match against me registers as a minor blip on the screen. Clemmens is focused on Walsh, doesn’t perceive me as a threat. We’re buds, why would he? The same can be said for Walsh, although he is admittedly a weak-in-the knees pisshead when it comes to facing Clemmens. The perception is that I will get the sloppy seconds of a first rate fight for this title. Universal something or other, it doesn’t matter. Bring me your screams for mercy, your grapple for a good grip that always fails, and your goddamned intensity. I’ve seen it before, a long time ago, in both of you, but lately it’s been a little lackluster. Things have been going a little too easily for you both. Going a little soft?

Let me be blunt. You can be assface.

 I don’t give a shit about the title. If you’re that concerned about it, when I win it, I’ll give it to you babies to hang over the mantle.  Just bring the fight that got you here to this point, that’s all I ask. Walsh, get your goddamn shit together and stop letting it flood all over the toilet seat because you’re a scared pussy right now. Find someone to hold your hand while you squeeze it out. Make it to the ring. I’m doing my damndest for you, so return the fucking favor and bring your cojones, not your fear filled hemorrhoids.

 Clemmens? Well, you especially need to make it there, dead or alive.