Bronwen O’Connor
"Necrosis of the Bride Part 2"
 

As she ducks around corners, swiftly ducking garbage cans, Cons slapping on the pavement, she keeps imagining she’s seeing Till’s monstrous white apparition looming up in front of her.

“I want you to watch him die, Bronwen. Watch how pathetic he is as he falls as only mortals fall. Stop running, or I’ll make you regret it even more than simply killing your one love.”

She guessed the only way Till could keep track of her, is if she was around Shane, Shane was the planet Till would always orbit until he forced it into a black void.  But there was something else going on…something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“You’re mine Bronwen. Not his, not anyone’s….Mine. In life, and in death, if need be.”

She rounded the next corner and ran into what seemed like a brick wall, the air whooshing out of her lungs as she hit the ground instantly, landing flat on her back. She rolled around gasping for breath and dimly saw a figure standing over her.

“I know you run faster than me,” Shane said with a wink, “but you always run towards the same fucking place.”

The liquor store, brightly lit up with flashing neon signs and dirty white-barred windows sat like a shining oasis across the street.

She coughed, her lungs burning and her heart jumping, wheezing for air as she curled into a crouching position on the cement.

“Ye didn’t have to fuckin’ clothesline me, you dirty bastard,” she finally managed, striking out wildly with one arm towards his legs. He laughed and caught her fist gently in one hand, pulled her up and into his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked more seriously. “You’ve been scaring the shit out of me all night.”

She shrugged out of his arms a little and kept him at a distance from her as she pondered what to say.

“I …need a drink,” she forced out, starting across the street to the liquor store. He followed in behind her into the brightly fluorescent-lit interior. It was like old times as she grabbed a bottle of Solly’s and drained about half of it with one hand, dumping a pile of cash on the counter with the other, Shane perusing the beer section, keeping one careful eye on her all the same.  He ended up getting a twelve-pack of Bud and they trailed out of the store, not talking as they roamed the quiet neighborhood streets in a meander back to the Challenger.

“Why did you run away like that?” he finally asked, after they’d walked in silence for a while.

“It’s not safe for me to be around you right now,” she replied somberly.

“You have no idea,” Till murmured, low toned avarice caressing her lobes.

She shook her head.

“I think I’m going crazy,” she laughed in disbelief, swigging more vodka. “I feel like there’s much more to this than I can fucking figure out. Ye know, like, I get it that Till wants to fuck ye up, he really does. That much,” she paused, “has been very apparent.”

Shane’s hand rubbed his face as he looked at her intently for a moment.

“I don’t know what to tell you Bron,” he said morosely. “He’s killed every woman I’ve ever been with. I …he killed Dare, you know? My fucking family too, man… “

“Such a good boy, that tow-headed little Dare, to give me what I needed to get to you, my dear-- the intrusive nature of Life. So you see…it is your cause—because of you, Dare had to die. Do you see the method-- is it all becoming quite crystal …clear…yet? ”

As Till’s nausea inducing laughter wiped the ambient street noise out of her head completely, it shattered her sanity a little more,  his insanely low approving growls chortling vibrations in through to her teeth.

She stared at Shane. He had disappeared into grief, quite physically. No one had known where the fuck he was, not even her. For once in her life, she’d been worried sick about him, despite pulling the same shit on him numerous times. Learned a valuable lesson the heart-attack way.  He hadn’t called, hadn’t picked up, just packed up and left her with a house full of stable-mates just as stunned as she had been. The look of grotesque fury and sorrow on his face as he’d slammed the door behind him with barely a backwards glance had been enough for her to not even ask why.

She hadn’t known Dare was dead until the funeral.  The casket had lain open in the cemetery, and rain had gently fallen on that gray day, stirring Dare’s peacefully resting face into an alabaster sheen as the heavens touched him one last time. He’d been lowered into the dirt. People who hadn’t even known Dare, but knew only Shane, came up and paid their sympathies.  Few had truly known Dare. The Clemmens family was growing ever smaller. Shane had refused eye contact, only staring at the ground as he stolidly stood there for over two hours, not leaving until the final touches to the site had been made, stone lowered into place. She had never seen him like that, silent, unmoving, eerily detached.

“I don’t think it’s just about family Shane,” she said gently, moving in closer to stroke his cheek.

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Till is about the most unpredictable monstrosity I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting in a few back alleys.”

“He saved my life once, ye know,” she said thoughtfully. Shane laughed in disbelief and stared at her.

“And then, he raped you, right? Ol’ Till has his own superiority complex about the fine anus of a woman,” Shane said, surprisingly sober.

“He bathed me,” she said, almost wistfully, “and dressed my wounds. Praised me.  Offered me my first legit job too, as a matter of fact, with SFT.”

“What about the big fat bastard you started with?” Shane asked. “The one who rigged your third fight for you to take a fall?”

She snorted at the memory. How stupid she’d been to trust that man. That had been Till’s way of detaching himself from her, she thought, forever. He’d set her up with a manager set on fucking her over. She’d fucked him over pretty good, she remembered, in a basketball court in a derelict part of town, leaving his bloodied carcass for the murders of hoods patrolling in the day, picking up always it seemed, where the night left off.

Bronwen took another swig of the Stolly, reached forward, kissed Shane, feeling the vodka warm his mouth, her cheeks flushing as he leaned into her, sliding his hands under her shirt to settle on the small of her back.

“Such a dirty girl…” Till breathed fetidly into her ear. “You’ll need a vodka infused sterilization before you’ll be fully cleansed of Clemmens—how… appropriate… for you. Clemmens is a taint on your purity, a taint soon to be eliminated.” 

Bronwen pushed Shane away.

“Stop.”

“Bron…” Shane complained. “Hot, cold, lukewarm, apathetic…what’s it going to be?” He leaned in again, his warm knuckles grazing her cheekbone as he lifted her chin to stare into her eyes. She looked away for a second, cursed loudly, and came back with a wicked uppercut, clipping Shane right in the jaw. He staggered, and stared at her.

“You make me fucking crazy sometimes,” he yelled, “you know that? Goddamnit Bron.”

“Kill Till then,” she said calmly, staring at him. “I can’t be around ye, until you fucking waste that ogre.”

“I…” Shane started, “you don’t understand.”

“Slay the dragon,” Bronwen quietly said. “Save the girl. I absolutely can’t do this one.”

“He’s going to go after you if I leave you alone,” Shane shot back, agitated, fumbling with a cigarette.

 “Find him first then,” she whispered.  

Shane took a deep breath, and pulled her to him, hugging her tightly.

“I don’t know how this is going to go,” he said, “but you’re right.”

He turned and walked away abruptly down the street, scattering the reflection of the harsh orange streetlights as he strode through the puddles pocketing the asphalt, leaving her to stare after him.

She started walking down the street aimlessly, hearing the thumping of a bar grow faintly closer as she meandered. She drew up to the bar eventually, and noticed people milling about outside with their drinks and cigarettes in hand.

One man, middle aged with a shaved head and a fierce skull tattoo, was quite drunk, reeling all over the place, and toting a small video camera in his hands as he tottered and smashed into a bus bench, a parking sign, finally coming to rest in a mumbling heap as he beaned a light pole. She leaned down and offered him her hand, hauling his besotted carcass to its feet.

“You all right there mate?” she asked, laughing and helping him over to the bench.

“I’m fine,” he slurred, “jes fine…I don’t know why they put these things in places where people fuckin’ run into them though…”

“Why the camera?” she asked purposefully.

“Oh well, you know….I always seem to black out when I drink,” he laughed. “I figure if I tape it, I can look back and figure out how much to drink is too much…”

She laughed, “seriously?”

“No,” he groaned, “I’m jes fuckin’ with ya. I jes came back from a rockin’ concert, and I was taping it for a friend of mine.”

“Ahhh,” she replied. “Are ye pretty good with that thing though?”

“Decent enough,” he shrugged.

“Do ye want to sober up and make two hundred bucks in one hour?” she asked.

 

The cab came to a stop at a large city park. The sky was lightening, and the time was about 4 a.m. The hired camera man, George, had procured some coke to keep himself awake, and yet was less sketchier than she’d figured him to be.

They walked into a clearing with a large fountain in it. The fountain was quiet, and lined with large bronzed lions gazing outwards in a furious rage.  

“Ok George, are ye ready for this?” She asked. He nodded and moved in for the shot.

*shift change*

The camera switches on and Bronwen is laughing, trying to seriously drag back some more of the Solitznaya vodka before she gets started. She looks young, carefree, and a little tipsy as she puts the bottle down gingerly and lights a smoke. Once her cigarette is lit, she scowls and stares at the camera. She reaches out and pulls the lens towards her sneering face.

“Now listen up,” she growls.

At last some honesty! Here I’ve been waiting with baited breath, wondering about all of this unease and inability to be blunt with one another, despite how intertwined we inevitably all are in N$V.  I’ve been waiting for a long time for you to speak up Seth, so really, thank you. Thank you for pointing out that once again, no one is able to separate me and my career, of whatever quality it is, from Shane Clemmens. He defines me through the come I swallow, clearly. It magically turns me into a better wrestler, a more valuable person to society and Fight One. Who really has this miracle semen you speak of? It is certainly not Shane.  I have to say though, it is really a bother to walk in on you fellating him sometimes.  You are weak Seth. And weakening daily.

 I had no idea you had such skewed and overly dramatic perceptions of my presence. For the most part, I’m fairly certain you and I have steered clear of each other up until this point. I’ve never gone out of my way to offend or injure you or your friendship to Shane. I am not the type, and I’m offended that this was your perception. I respect you, even still.   I’m blessed because Shane remains my partner and soul mate, but I certainly do not begin to seek any kind of accolade or definition of who I am from my association with him. I didn’t come into N$V with the intention of stanking it up with cunt smell. It already reeked of your sick stench far before I even happened along. Right now, I am standing in his shadow, it is true, but to be honest, it doesn’t bother me, whereas you’ve been standing in his shadow all along, and well…it bothers you, doesn’t it? I smell a certain traitorous odour around you sometimes, I have to admit.

As for Shane and I, much like you feign to understand between the two of you, we have been quite honest with each other from the start. I expect him to continue doing his best, and he expects that in return from me. Yes, I’ve been floundering with some losses, but he knows, as well as I do, that’s part of the game, and as you’ve mentioned, better to lose in a good crowd like Fight One than the cheaper places that only Rayn would attract to. Every loss has been meaningful, not demeaning, goes to improving my skill—I don’t see the shame in that.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware of the reputation of NCV, and I’m truly sorry if it has wounded your ego as you cling to the only thing left that grants you notoriety, but it’s all part of the knocks baby, it’s just life.  I think our conduct says more about the stable, personally, not some losses, and my conduct, whether you’ve been paying attention or not, has been noteworthy. 

I didn’t deserve to win the matches that I lost. I’ve been pretty distracted with all the bullshit, it is true. I didn’t have the focus I needed to have. I’m not embarrassed that I lost, because I still got a good fight from each, got some well needed sense knocked into me. I knew before I even stepped into the ring against Rayn, and Lucas that I wouldn’t win. Right now, this painfully received hubris is crystal clear. I’m completely all here, with you in my sights. Don’t proceed to tell me I don’t deserve to be here, because I’m done slaggin’ around.

 If it happens that Shane and I end up grappling for Universal title with each other, I’ll bring my best,  and he’ll bring his.  Whether I win or lose, I would get to do something I love, with someone I love, like kick his ass bloody and still get to fuck in the aftermath. Even if I lose.  I get a fuck, and an honorable lesson in the same process.  It’s pretty beauty when you think about it.

I must mention, I’m somewhat surprised with the triviality you seem to parade through your life with, the ridiculous superficial nature of your “gritty” life experiences. I honestly thought you had more substance, more depth, but apparently I was mistaken. See what happens when we don’t communicate with team members Seth? Point in case, it is hilarious that you referred to yourself at one point as my “archetype.” What a peculiar word that is—I’m not sure you fully grasped what you were throwing out into the void there.  It is one thing to very simply define an archetype, but a whole other thing to lay claim to the epic journey that definition insinuates; one of personal struggles, tragedy, and self discovery through the antagonisms of the universe. And all that shit on the side of course, like being an idol or a role model. I see what you’re saying, I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of “tragedy”, like when you missed the bus to grade school from your civil war monument of a house. I don’t buy it. It’s utterly unconvincing and too convenient. Cliched, right from the start. Of course you’re an orphan. Of course you can’t develop healthy relationships with people. You’re so bad-ass, issues, from the age of 2. Self-righteous gangster-bait—right from the get-go even!     

Your grasp on reality, truly seems quite minimal, guided by a clear love and instructional skill derived from “the Godfather” or other such films.  You conduct yourself in this bipolar fashion of being superficial Seth Dryden who loves hair gel, getting stoned, and goofing around with his” ‘bro’s”  on one hand, and weakly transition into “gritty street-wise bad ass and edgy Seth Dryden, the action hero, fighting gangsters from the inside-out, with a TROUBLED PAST.”  Smooth, tough action hero Seth, the God boy, in all kinds of bad situations with your bad self—I’m surprised you even fired the gun from the right end, frankly. Tell me, how long have you gone through life with such little skill and grandiose delusions of yourself, companioned with scores of just pure dumb luck? It’ll take a lot more than that to get yourself out of this next scrape, you fucking Hardy Boy.

All the soulful notions you imparted about the stable, your friendship, your allegiance... It was disheartening actually, I thought the great Seth Dryden had a much wider scope, a better grasp on the bigger picture, but you’re as small-minded as the rest of them in a lot more regards than you seem to think. I especially loved the holistic self-righteous attitude about saving the purity and solemnity of the sport, of the stable. It speaks leagues about how self-centered you are, despite your outward denial of it—you think you’re the archetypal pure wrestler? You unwittingly condemn your team members you previously, spoke so highly of a mere few minutes before?  That reputation, man…reputation gets you nowhere, I hate to watch you find that out the hard way.

 When I first joined N$V, it certainly wasn’t because I wanted the rep. I was ASKED to be in N$V. I may not have earned much in comparison to you or Clemmens, but I obviously have made an impression somehow.  The fights that I win, I am memorable for, that much I at least know, for better or for worse, though to be honest, I don’t care much about the “gloreh” as much as you seem to. You’ve been sadly misinformed by whatever soap opera themes you choose to run your life with, if you think I blew Shane for a free ride, that I’m not here for the right reasons, that I’m a disgrace to this fed.   I got in it, because I didn’t know anyone else, and needed some solid ground, that’s all. You get bailed on by your agent in a foreign country you’ve never laid eyes or realities on… sometimes you just need someone around to say “hey, that sucked, do it better next time—wanna go smoke a joint?” You make me out to have such impure motives, but really, that’s all I wanted.

 I’ve always liked you too Seth, believe it or not. It always kind of burned me that you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. You’re all playing the equality card now, but let’s face it, you just saw my face and turned the other direction every time. ‘Just a woman’, you probably muttered. So yeah, I call shenanigans on your statements on equality in Fight One. It’s like every other fucking fed I’ve ever been in. You have a dick, you’re golden, you just have to prove yourself in the ring. Women though, that’s a whole other game altogether. Ask Allisa, ask Pettis, ask Annika, ask me! We have to fight through the trash talk and insinuations far harder than you could even fucking imagine. Every fucking fight we are in, we get the same damn tripe shoveled at us each time, over and over,  it never stops. Don’t even try to say that “oh, things have changed, especially my personal opinions of women in a fed”, it’s fucking bullshit and it will continue to be. If I didn’t love the actual fighting, the satisfaction of making all these sexist pigs cry while I make them bleed and retract their chauvinism through their lost teeth,  I would have left a long time ago. I always do get mine, in one way or another, win or not. 

So Seth, is it really only you that will save the stable from disgrace? Really? I beg to differ.  The hope you once brought with your existence in N$V has been passed on. I assure you, while you are steadfast and a valuable to the stable, the torch of actually getting shit done…it’s not on you anymore. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re stuck in a rut dude, just admit it. I for one have been “waiting” for you to make a move for a long time of any particular significance for N$V, not solely benefitting yourself. You just like the swag and the swagger that goes with it. There’s a difference between being a team player and simply being a leech, play boy.  

Let us recap a little shall we?   Shane holds the Universal title now, but I often wonder, personally, how far he might have gone had you not constantly been latching onto him, the remora to his great white shark. It honestly seems like he’s constantly preventing you from doing something stupid, or saving your ass in one form or another. When have you ever stepped up for him? I find that over the years, that has been something I have seldom seen. You’re a good little stooge, but inevitably, you are the bottom in the friendship. You call me inconsistent in the ring—ha! The prostitute calling me a whore! Get a raging clue. When have you won something and actually held it in your hands for an extended period of time? It’s been a while dude, and certainly hasn’t happened in Fight One yet.  

 In the end, neither of us are of Shane’s rank, that’s why we’re here. Me, you, and puke stain over there in the corner. I’m sorry you seem baffled by that, but I am not. You haven’t changed at all, quite frankly, since the first time I laid eyes on you. It thus strikes me as funny then, that here I am, matched up against you—at this point, we are equidistance from the thing we both desire the most—and you, you have been in this far longer than I have.

You spill about self-improvement, but I don’t see it. You are not a jobber, it is true, but you remain steadfastly unmoving as of late in your “progress”.  I especially can’t relate to you however, being relatively new. It is expected I would still be green, but you…well, what’s your excuse? If you were honestly as great as you say you are, I expect you’d have that title by now, not Clemmens. I fully acknowledge I am not where I need to be yet, but refute your suggestions of being a fraud who doesn’t “get it”. What’s there to get, other than viewing you not as a role model, but a cautionary tale of a potential wash up like Rayne? Oh he IS.  

If I was going any other way than being dedicated to this sport, I wouldn’t deserve to be here. You were right about that. This in itself qualifies me just as much as you.  This is my chance to make my first indelible mark, whether I lose, if I have to fight Shane, or not, and I fully intend to pursue this to the best of my abilities. Thank you for bringing up your inadequacies by the way, they were very enlightening. 

This brings to mind possibly the most revealing thing about you. You, in your infinite wisdom and apparent loyalty, need to consider the impact of these statements not just on me, but on the friendship you apparently prize devoutly.   How well do you really know Shane? You’ve known him a long time Seth, but how  do you really know him as you question his perception, loyal friend Seth, questioning—no---doubting his personal judgment, doubting his ability to think critically, to make wise decisions on his partner, doubting his ability to make the right decisions for the good of N$V? You’ve basically, in your words to me, discredited every quality in him you apparently treasure. Worst of all…you have cast yourself as doubting that and whom has surpassed you in areas of excellence  currently out of your grasp, like a cockroach half-dead on the sidewalk. He has achieved Universal champ, and you have not. What then does this say about you and your perceptions, other than your pathetic nature maybe shining a little clearer than you’d originally thought? What does this say about your apparent views on his friendship with you? Do you honestly think he would let a match, even Universal title, hurt a friendship that he clearly values dearly?  I’ll tell you exactly what I see in you, Seth. You’re very insecure-- running scared. For all the so-called knowledge and experience you have, you have this aura about you I am constantly catching glimpses of, that you’re a snake in the grass. I hope you prove me wrong, but you give me a bad taste in my mouth when I consider your character in full. It is people like you that breed traitors—you, the weakest link, not I.

     George’s face was absolutely stunned.

“What is it that you do again?” he asked nervously.  “I think it’s past my bed time.”

Bronwen laughed loudly, and jumped off the ledge of the fountain.

“No worries, we’re done here, “ she drawled, handing him his money as he handed her the cassette.

“Make sure you send it back,” he said somberly, “the Burning Headpieces are a once and a lifetime experience in concert.”

A low rumbling noise could be heard approaching in the distance. Bronwen paid no mind as she turned back to the fountain and watched the lions guard the font silently. Turning back to observe George’s hastily retreating figure however, she noticed a black van screaming around the corner to the street the park opened up to. The van swiftly jumped the curb, narrowly missing George and drove up onto the grass.

“What the hell,” Bronwen said, shielding her eyes to try and see through the glare of the streetlights into the windshield. It was pitch black, she couldn’t see the driver.

The van slowed to a throaty idle as it sat in the grass for a moment. It was just down the embankment from her and where the fountain lay.

Bronwen shrugged and sat down on the fountain, re-opening the bottle of Stollies and taking a long pull. As she put the bottle down, she heard the van accelerate suddenly, and watched it ramp up the embankment, wheels tearing large swaths of brown in the once lush grass as it headed straight towards her.

“Ahh shit,” she mumbled. The van hit the cement pad the fountain rested on and jumped forward, skidding for a second before it slammed into the bronze fountains a few feet away from her. The passenger’s side window rolled down as it quickly reversed, and Jagger stuck his head out.

“Hello Love, “ he shouted, “did you miss me?”

“What are you doing, you fucking psycho?!’ She yelled back at him, scanning the ground for something large enough to throw and do some damage.

“I told someone I’d take you out for dinner and a movie,” he sneered,  popping his head back inside the van. The vans tires squealed as he laid rubber down for a few seconds before leaping forward back towards her. She hurled what she’d found, a fist sized rock, and watched it lodge in the windshield satisfactorily before she started to run.  She ran around the circumference of the fountain before leaping up onto one of the lions and staring down at him as he veered towards the lion and smashed into it with the van. The front of the vehicle crumpled with an agonizing metal screech and crunch, sending startling vibrations through the statue. She regained her balance after teetering for a second and leapt onto the next lion. Jagger disentangled himself from the first lion and came at the second one with a vicious sideswipe of the van. She guessed it must have been armoured, because it wasn’t showing the damage nearly as much as she figured it would as she glanced downwards. 

Two lions later, and she was beginning to feel the effects of an incredibly difficult day, all while Jagger heightened the tenacity of his attacks. She still had a fucking paperview match with one of the toughest opponents in the league coming up.

“I need to get the fuck out of here,” she groaned, looking for an exit. She strung him a long a little further, and looked for vehicles in all directions as she figured out a plan. The freeway was across the hillocks of quiet shimmering grass, at least 300 yards away. If she could make it there…she’d be safe.

She slowly made her way back to the bottle of Stollies, and snatched it barely in time to avoid the now dented and dull chrome bumper of the 80’s style van. Climbing into the center of the fountain where she was most obscured from his view, she quickly tore off a hunk of her shirt and soaked three fourths of the strip in vodka before jamming it into the neck of the bottle and lighting it. Sprinting towards the noise of the van, she leapt over the bronze lion and hurled the poor quality Molotov cocktail towards the crack of the driver’s side window. It was open. Three point shot.

The vodka ignited a few seconds after impact, and she watched Jagger as he flailed about in the flames trying to get the van door open for a few seconds, before she started running across the field towards the road. She made it about three fourths of the way before she heard the tell tale thrum of the van engine behind her though, headlights glowing in the sunrise. Her heart seared and convulsed as she forced herself to run faster. The free way rocked and careened in her line of vision, and spots of light started showing up in her view,  her eyes fixed on the road unblinkingly.  

It was almost shocking to feel the pavement on her feet when it happened. The van had of course sped up more than easily enough to catch her, but had hung back for some reason. As she hit the road, running into the sparse morning traffic, waving her hands desperately for a car to stop, the van squeeled up next to her, clipping her lightly and knocking Bronwen to her feet in the middle of traffic. As she lay there, gasping for air and shocked from the broken piece of pelvis she could feel moving around as she breathed, no one stopped. The van waited in frustration , trying to cross the lanes to mow her down, but constantly circling back.

Finally, she got up at the sound of a motorist decceleerating. She hauled open the passenger’s side door and popped the glovebox open as the driver was in mid-welcome. There was a small revolver, fully loaded resting against the driver’s temple in less than a second as he stopped saying hello.

“Every fucking American DOES own a gun, I see,” she yelled. “Now fucking drive, or I’ll use it to teach you a horrible lesson about gun-related violence.’