As she wheeled the Norton down the driveway, her cell phone rang.

“Bronwen, we must talk,” Annika said quietly.

“Hey baby,” Bronwen said loosely, “what a stroke of luck that ye would call me right now. How ‘bout ye meet me at the Iron Horse in about twenty minutes?”

“I’m afraid that’s not necessarily twenty minutes away-- ” Annika interjected.

“Oh and baby, the address is 19899-167 st.” Bronwen added with a drawl. “I don’t care how far it is Annika. Fucking get there.”

“I do not imbibe,” Annika said darkly.

“See you there girlfriennnn….” Bronwen said, clicking the cell shut and pulling down her helmet. She kicked the bike into high and pinned the throttle on the curve of the pavement’s lip as it hit the road and curled a small ‘s’ into the pavement.

The Iron Horse bar was pumping with bad hit music and throbbing with the bodies of the trendy and scantily clad, squeezed on the dance floor, hovering around pool tables, and hunched over bars.

Bronwen scratched her arm lazily as she walked into the bar, the skin of her bare heavily tattooed arms cool with the breeze from the road. She sat squarely on a stool and waited to catch the bar tender’s eye. He ambled over with a small smile on his face,

“You’ve come to make my life more exciting, huh?”

“You’ve no idea,” she grinned wickedly, pointing to the shelves behind him, “Jim Beam please, just the bottle and a glass.”

She was a quarter of the way through the J.B. when Annika slipped through the doors of the bar and stood with her arms crossed as she scanned the room. A drunken frat boy veered by her and stopped mid way past before he turned back and approached the petite blond. She’d taken careful measures to dress casually, wearing a black turtle neck and army green camo pants, but the man leaned forward to work his mojo anyways, smitten by her blond hair and pale eyes.  A moment later, his feet crumpled beneath him and he slid to the floor in bewilderment. Bronwen had seen the boot deftly extend out to hook the guy’s legs out from under him, but he sure hadn’t.

“Goodbye pretty army lady,” the boy called from the floor, still in overly good spirits.

“This place is repugnant,” Annika said lowly as she sat in the stool next to Bronwen.

“It gets more forthcoming if you drink some of this,” Bronwen smiled, handing her the bottle and an already filled glass of the amber liquid.

“I do not imbibe alcoholic substances,” Annika replied shortly. Bronwen shrugged and tilted the bottle to her own lips. In the same motion, she slid the note that Shane left, across the bar to Annika.

                “What?” She exclaimed, and examined the note more closely. “This is incomprehensible, I do not understand. You and Shane Clemmens were ideally suited partners with a high degree of matched attributes. What fallible logic is he using then to seek an end to your comradeship?”

“Beats the hell outta me,” Bronwen said, belching loudly and pushing the bottle towards Annika.

“If there’s one fucking traditional culture ‘thing’ that I’ve learned about America,” she said the sarcastic edge to her voice wearing thin, “it’s that misery loves company, and if you’re company and you plan to stay, you better fucking drink, or I’ll kick your ass out of here.”

“This is not a good idea,” Annika growled, throwing back the J.B. in the glass.

“Oh ye stupid motherfucker,” Bronwen shouted, “you think ye can best me do ye?”

It’s two hours later, and they are in the parking lot, surrounded by a mob of bar patrons. Annika is taking a swig of J.B., their second bottle, and Bronwen is circling around with a big dude with a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on his bicep in a thin light bic blue, a number scrawled underneath.

“Where’d ye learn to swing like that,” Bronwen jeered, “from the other bitches in the showers?”

The guy roars and hurtles towards her with his arms outstretched. She catches his momentum briefly and tosses him onto his face to the pavement, falling on his back with a few heavy lefts and rights.  The guy is moaning and his ear is bleeding from the stone on her left hand as she gets up and nails him with a drunken Shoot to Thrill to the back of the head. The crowd whoops and cheers her on, and the guy slowly staggers to his feet, face purple with rage.

“That was a bullshit move, you bitch, “ he roars, “a bullshit move!”

“Aw bollocks,” she taunted, “what are ye goin’ to do about it?”

“I’m goin’ to end you, you stupid cunt,” he yells, reaching into his back pocket. Annika, slightly perpendicular to the dude, notices before Bronwen does that he’s got a shiny new Glock in his hand and pulls the bottle from her mouth. Lightening fast, she brings the thick glass down on his thinly haired skull and he crumples to the ground.

Bronwen is kneeling on the guy’s back with his gun nubbed into his cortex, listening to him beg for forgiveness, when the cell in her pocket rings.

She steps off the guy and retreats out of the crowd, slaps and pats rattling on her back as she jostles through people. The dude now crumpled and crying like a baby on the ground, earlier had brushed by the bar and copped a feel of her ass rather blatantly. It was like righteous deliverance of what she’d originally been seeking in Annika. A fight, and some drawn blood.

“Oi, “ she mumbled, “who’s this then?”

“It’s Mala, Bronwen, from the –“

“I know who ye are,” she said sharply, “what do ye have to tell me?”

“I’ve gone and made the required arrangements. I’d like to begin the process of dealing with your predicament as soon as possible.”

“When,” Bronwen replied tersely, every ounce of sobriety having returned at the sound of Mala’s voice.

“Oh say, in about 12 hours,” Mala said.

“What, 7 at night? Are ye guys a book club or summat?” Bronwen laughed.

“Now dear,” she chuckled, “at our ages we’re not nearly so energetic as yourselves.”

“ Shit,” Bronwen said after a moment, “what time is it? Why are ye phoning me at this hour?”

“It’s 5 a.m. Bronwen,”  she said conversationally, “I’m always up this early to do yoga. It’s good for these old bones. Why are you up this early? You a sunrise yoga enthusiast too?”

Bronwen looked at the heap of man, still on the pavement, and the cuts on her knuckles and smiled. A weight of pent up anger had been lifted off her shoulders in the last hour or so, especially cutting her first knuckle on the guy’s overbite.

“Yeah, oh yeah, I love yoga. It’s great. Really gets the blood flowin’,” she replied.

“See you at 7?” Mala answered, wisely not inquiring into the lie.

“Yes ma’am,” Bronwen confirmed.

Jamming the phone back into her pocket, she looked around for Annika in the dissipating groups of people standing around the downed man. Getting closer, she saw Annika watching the spectators as they poked and prodded the lummox from a safe distance, sitting spread out on a bench, another mysteriously appearing bottle of J.B.’s in her lap.

“I have never realized what an affinity I have for American liquor before,” Annika mentioned, gesturing for Bronwen to sit down. “It is quite tasteful and refreshing.”

She was smashed, Bronwen could see, as her arm dangled loosely over the back of the bench.

“Ye know, ye kind of have to take it easy with this stuff too eh,” Bronwen cautioned, “it’ll catch up on ye sooner than later…”

No sooner had she said this, and Annika was on her knees, vomiting over the back of the bench, loud hot gushing sounds.

“Yeah,” Bronwen murmured, “kind of like that.”

“I would have much preferred bearing the brunt of your random brutality than this,” Annika moaned pathetically after a few minutes, wiping her face with the back of her arm.

“Well, but I am severely inebriated,” she sighed. “I would have preferred to not lose control of my faculties on someone’s lawn.”

Bronwen giggled, “it’s all good dude, ye didn’t even make it out of the parkin’ lot of the place.”

Annika squinted at her for a moment, before she raised a finger and pointed it sloppily in Bronwen’s direction.

“Your accent seems to linquistically amplify as you drink more,” she said suddenly. “I am certain I will start speaking Russian if I continue to drink this stuff.”

“Wanna head to my house?” Bronwen proposed.

“I will come to your abode, yes. We should embark on a mission find Shane, to query into his motivations for this clichéd gender-biased act.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that just yet,” Bronwen said more seriously.

“Why not? Is this not the reason you initially contacted me?”

Bronwen laughed tersely, “no, I thought I was being pretty straightforward with ye when I told ye I just wanted a drinking buddy.”

“Oh,” Annika said in surprise. “Are we just to leave Shane Clemmens to his own foolish devices then?”

“Nah, “ she interjected, “if he’s asked me not to come after him, I need to respect that. In the meantime, I’ve got a smaller issue of my psyche to deal with.”

Annika stared at her quizzically, “such as?”

In the cab ride back to the house, as Annika fought off the urge to pass out, Bronwen informed her of the supernatural twists her life had taken. As Annika listened in suspended disbelief, she realized with  jolt that this wasn’t a game. She knew by now that Bronwen was as much a skeptic in most matters as she was, knew thusly then, that this issue with Till represented a very real danger.

“This is astounding,”  Annika said after a while.

“You mean, fucking insane?” Bronwen laughed. “God, I sound like Lucretia Black.”

Annika snorted, “Lucretia Black just needs an antipsychotic—this seems quite contrary to that scenario.”

At the house,  Bronwen tossed Annika some blankets and directed her to the spare room. Once she was sure Annika was settled, she peeled off the layers of her clothing, caked with blood and sweat and dropped them In the hall. She’d just pulled on a pair of Shane’s old boxers and a tank top when she became aware that Annika was standing in the doorframe of the spare bedroom  watching her.

“There’s something I have to tell you about,” she said quietly.

“Mmhmm?”

Annika passed over a photo to her and moved closer to where Bronwen stood.  The photo itself was covered in shadows, in grainy black and white, but there was no mistaking the ghastly white skin of a woman spread over the hood of the black Challenger, her legs twined around an unmistakable darkly tanned male waist. The pockmarked scars of birdshot were a small galaxy on the right buttock, and the small black star tattoo on his shoulder barely visible. She handed the photo back to Annika, and cleared the knot that had gathered in her throat.

“Where did ye get this from,” she asked.

Annika looked at the ground with mild embarrassment, “I was in the neighborhood. I saw Shane’s car, and I wanted to have a word with him. I followed him to where they stopped. As soon as I realized he was about to engage in fornication with someone who was clearly not his wife, I took it upon myself to…”

“God dammit Annika,” Bronwen growled, ” I get it.”

Annika moved forward and cautiously embraced Bronwen, placing her head on Bronwen’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe he did that goddamned trollop,” Bronwen moaned.

“I myself cannot understand why he would do that either,” Annika murmured. “You are a much better quality comrade for him. I am starting to think for myself, that he does not deserve you. “

Annika was still holding her as a few errant tears slipped from Bronwen’s eyes. With a pained expression, Annika raised her head to look at Bronwen closely.

“I think I would be good enough for you,” she said gruffly, her cheeks flushing deep red. Bronwen stared at her in surprise and stood in shocked silence before saying anything. Annika’s arms slipped deftly away from her and she looked up at Bronwen pensively, embarrassed.

“Ye know,” Bronwen said finally, “there was a time… but now is neither the time or place. That said, thank ye Annika, you’re a good gal.”

“You—what ?” Annika said.

“Ah go to bed now, ye damn drunk.”

Tantamount Losses Part One

In past weeks, I’ve noticed a newcomer to the ranks of F1X, this dude touting the dubiously imagined moniker “Livewire”. Imminently, I’m about to also be in a match with this energy drink, along with Brett Lukas, the  short fat kid of the Lukas Boys that no one finds redeeming. You know the fat kid who always whines and acts obnoxious, slowing everyone else down and wasting their time? Brett Lukas ate sand in the sandbox as a child, and he’s still rubbing his eyes in shock about everything in his life that happened afterwards.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Livewire…it makes me reminisce about nerds playing DnD with guarano filled energy drinks at their beck and call…case in point with your lack of imagination on that fucking name alone, that shit kills brain cells dude. I mean, I’m all for new additions to the roster at F1X, but what is it exactly that you’re bringing to the table? All I’m seeing is a rapper who thinks he’s too hard core to rhyme about a life he never lived, who is now immersing himself in something he’ll wish he’d never lived through. Hey, maybe by the time your little “wrestling” stint is over, you’ll have something to rap about, for real. I realize you’ve won a few matches already since you got here, but I really have to warn you not to get cocky about that so fresh out of the gate, because it just makes getting cut down by someone more experienced all the more brutal to take. I’ve taken on matches and sent dudes and chicks alike home crying. Crippled.

Brett, you too, should know you’re in for a rough ride this match. You know Shane’s gone out of NCV right, and no one knows where he’s fucked off to, but by no means does that mean you should get comfortable in his absence. Between the two of us, Shane and I, we are a force to be reckoned with, but that is born of two parts of brute skill and violence coming together. While the supernova of our union has gone black hole, that doesn’t make me less dangerous than him. He is my greatest competition, and my greatest love, but in saying that, you should both be mindful that I’ve beaten any opponent of lesser skill more often than not, beneath the man holding the title—the title I fully intend to make my own in memorandum of him and what that represented.

Nothing will stop me—Brett and Livewire, you are but faint footfalls behind me already, as I roar my way up a  path to a much greater end.

                                                                      endo