Year of the Snake

It’s late, and the most recent Fallout event has come and gone; blood has been spilled, titles have changed hands, and the balance of power seems to be shifting slowly. There has been a brutal display of power from a far more vicious version of Jason Long... as well as the return of Elena DeDraca, staking her claim on the Prime championship.

The fans have already filed out of the arena and begun their journey home in the cold winter’s night, as have most of the wrestlers and crew. Only a few cars remain in the nearest parking garage; one of them being a rusty, beaten-up old GMC pickup, owned by the woman who walked out of a violent, bloody melee with the Noble championship belt held between her teeth.

As if on cue, she comes stumbling into the garage, catching sight of her vehicle. Some of the talent use cabs or valets so they don’t have to walk the short distance from the arena to their cars, or hotels, or whatever destination they were headed to after the show.

Billy clearly isn’t the sort, however; she carries her new Noble belt in the open, as if she weren’t the slightest bit worried about anyone trying to take it off her. The golden faceplate drags along the concrete floor of the parking garage, as she slowly approaches her waiting truck. On the bare skin of her arms, a multitude of thumbtacks are still visible - the metal glinting as the light of the garage reflects off them - pressed into her flesh. Looks like she didn’t bother to have any of her wounds treated after the match.

One has to wonder if she even notices, her eyes glassed-over and vacant as she steps up to her vehicle. But no matter her mental state, Billy’s ever-present sense of paranoia seems to override whatever else is going on in that brain of hers. Before she so much as touches the door handle, she does a quick circle around the exterior of the truck; peeking into windows, checking under the tarp covering the truck’s bed, looking for signs of forced entry, and even getting on her hands and knees to check underneath the vehicle.

And for good reason. There was a bit of a disagreement between her people and some two-bit Irish gang out of the Chicago area. Something about a missing shipment of guns that - they claim - the Bennetts still owed them for. And you can never be too sure when dealing with those people; they have a reputation for handling their problems with explosives, rather than coming at their enemies head-on.

Seems to be a cultural thing.

Satisfied that nothing is going to blow up the moment she turns the car on, Billy crawls out from underneath the truck. Unlocking and opening the driver’s side, she steps up into the seat before shutting the door behind her.

Without even glancing at the thing, she tosses the Noble championship unceremoniously onto the floor of the passenger side. It lands amidst a pile of cigarette butts, empty baggies, drinking straws cut into snorting implements, and even the occasional rectangular piece of aluminum foil that seem to have half-melted brown/black goo stuck to the surface.

It’s obvious that - despite the prestige attached to the belt, despite the fact that most other wrestlers in the company would be parading it around and rubbing everyone’s face in it - she views it as little more than trash; on par with the discarded paraphernalia of her various drug habits.

To Billy, it’s just one more thing she’s got to lug around from show to show, city to city. Good thing she drives, she can’t imagine having to bring that shit in the airport.

The person who cares least about such meaningless prizes has somehow taken the gold away from those who plainly desired it more; now what the fuck was she supposed to do with it?

Maybe if Slade is humble enough to get on his hands and knees to kiss her boots, she might hand it back to the former Marine... along with a pat on the head and a whispered ‘good boy’ in his ear.

Somehow, she doubts such an individual is even capable of lowering himself to that level. Probably for the best, as he remains one of the members of True Society she has any respect for.

Still bearing that blank, faraway expression, she puts the keys in the car’s ignition - moving as though she were on autopilot - before stopping just short of turning the keys. In an instant, that calm veneer splinters into a thousand pieces, her lips curling into a vicious snarl as she lets out an animalistic howl that sounds somewhere between frustration and fury.

Arms flailing around the cabin of the pickup truck, she turns in her seat and aims a punch at the driver’s side window as she screams.

It doesn’t give, so she strikes again...

The glass rattles in its frame, but remains solid. A third punch is thrown...

On that impact, the window shatters outwards, spraying shards of glass onto the concrete floor outside the vehicle. The fresh blood from her cut hand quickly flows down the length of her arm to mingle with the dried, crusty red from the wounds she had endured earlier in the evening. Whatever pain she feels from the deep gouges the broken glass left in her is seemingly ignored, as she slams her forehead down onto the steering wheel in exasperation.

For some time, she remains silent; the only noise within the truck’s interior is the very real sobbing that escapes her mouth in short, sharp bursts. Tears trickle down her cheeks, off the leather of the steering wheel, and onto the floor mat underneath.

“I fucked up... I fucked up... I fucked up...” she repeats to herself, as if reciting a solemn prayer.

Lifting her face up, she rubs away tears and snot with the back of one arm; knocking loose several thumbtacks embedded in her flesh, which proceed to clatter down onto the floor. As if noticing the flow of crimson from her hand for the first time, Billy reaches over to grab an old, filthy white t-shirt from the passenger seat; she tears off a long strip and wraps it around the cuts to stem the blood.

Probably not very sanitary, but that’s hardly her style.

She sighs, hanging her head low as greasy hair tumbles down to hide her face.

She slams the heel of her bandaged palm onto the car’s horn, the noise echoing through the nearly empty parking garage.

A second time, accompanied by another blast from the horn.

She pauses just short of striking the horn a third time, taking a deep breath to steady herself as she lifts her head up while fiddling with the truck’s center console.

She pulls out a small, scratched and dented camcorder; a keepsake from a trio of film school students who were hanging around her neck of the woods, asking all sorts of inconvenient questions about the Bennett clan around town.

Their faces are still being broadcast on TV networks in the area as missing persons; only Billy and a few members of her family know what truly happened to those kids. Nobody was going to be calling any hotline with tips on their whereabouts, to say the least.

Hitting the power button on the recording device, she turns it around to make sure it still works before pressing ‘record’ and placing it on the dash, with the lens centered on her face. She never used to be one for making speeches - or talking much at all - but she’s kind of grown into it since joining Project: Honor.

Better than any kind of public speaking course, that’s for sure.

She clasps her hands together in prayer as she leans in towards the camera, eyes wide, face both deathly pale and blotchy-red from her crying jag. She sounds genuinely apologetic, though whether it’s regret for temporarily robbing them of their championship dreams in this company, or self-pity for denying herself a nice, long time in the ring together... well...

Teeth clamp down as she stops herself mid-sentence, her voice replaced by a low growl. Both of her hands grip the steering wheel tightly, muscles in her arms straining like she were trying to rip the thing off.

And then, her grip slackens as a great rush of air leaves her lungs. ‘Get it together’, she mouths to herself under her breath... but it seems like a great struggle for her to actually do so.

“Forget all that,” she says finally, trying not to say anything on camera that she might regret. She’s seen how Arik deals with people he even thinks have slighted him or True Society. Even in her frustrated state, lashing out wildly as she often does, she still doesn’t take things too far in that direction.

Her face twists in an expression of pure disgust as she reminds herself of the so-called ‘competition’ she’s facing on the next Fallout. Latoya Hixx and Earl Boyde; and not even a handicapped match against the pair of them. No, she’s being teamed with Havoc, the goddamn Prime champion and the most dangerous motherfucker in all of True Society - at least as far as Billy can tell from her short time here.

She doubts if she’ll even have a chance to do anything; she’s not about to try and shove Havoc to the side to handle things herself. Billy may be crazy, hungry for pain, and seemingly without the slightest regard for her own well-being... but she’s not outright suicidal.

And she’s firmly convinced she would have to be, to try and get between Havoc and their two upcoming opponents. If he wants the pair all to himself, she’ll just have to sit back and watch, as much as the idea sticks in her throat.

Billy will have to find some other outlet for her worst impulses, if it comes to that. Some poor crewmember backstage is bound to have a bad night, if she doesn’t get to partake in any of the violence in her next match.

But who knows? Maybe, just maybe, her partner will be in a mood to share.

Billy suddenly stops before she finishes speaking the woman’s nickname. As if the very thought of actually uttering it is simply too ridiculous to bear. She pauses to rub wearily at the bridge of her nose, as if she were fighting back a wicked headache... or just in disbelief at the fact someone would willingly adopt such a moniker.

Billy smiles sweetly at the camera - a disturbing expression, coming from her - before scooching forward in her seat to whisper at the lens.

Leaning back and stretching her arms up above her head, she yawns loudly as she settles in for the next line of thought. When she’s finished, she stares into the camera for a few seconds, the twitching of her lips making it look like she was trying to stifle laughter.

A few moments pass, and she seems to get a hold of herself; at least enough to carry on. Clearing her throat as if she had some important point to make with her next words, Billy clicks her tongue loudly and points an index finger at the camera.

Snickering to herself as a sarcastic grin begins to spread across her lips, she holds two palms up at either side and shrugs, as if to say ‘hey, I had to’.

Dropping her hands back to her sides to fidget idly, she continues to speak in a meandering, droning ramble; clearly not putting much effort towards contemplating how she wants to approach the topic.

Lazy. Thoughtless. Conversational.

At least she’s calm. For now.

Shaking her head in disappointment - whether in jest or genuine - Billy’s voice takes on a similarly let-down tone.

Billy puts two fingers in her mouth and pretends to gag before that smug, strangely pleasant grin returns.

It takes a moment for the irony of that statement to settle in Billy’s mind, and she can’t help but chuckle as she realizes what a lie those words were. She looks at the camera almost sheepishly as she sets about admitting it.

The smile fades gradually after those last words, until Billy’s face takes on a far more serious expression; teeth grinding, eyes twitching around in their sockets, and clearly not amused. Even her voice grows more low, speaking gravely and harshly like she were delivering a eulogy for some hated individual.

Reaching out to grab the camera off the dash, she closes the screen and hits the ‘OFF’ button before tossing it violently at the passenger side dashboard. It bounces off, falling to join the pile of garbage covering the floor.

Grabbing the keys that are already in the ignition, she turns them, bringing the old engine to life. Relaxing into the leather seat, Billy bends her neck back to stare up at the ceiling of the truck’s interior, trying to calm herself and leach a little bit of the frustration, disappointment and hatred out of her body before she starts the long trip home.

Suddenly, she reaches out to pull the glove compartment’s handle. As it pops open, a number of pill bottles and baggies of powder spill out.

“Mmm. Oughta keep this car cleaner when I’m this far north,” she mumbles, as if remembering the family name doesn’t carry the same weight with the law up here.

One hand paws around to find something in particular, anything to take the edge off so she can focus on driving... and then she notices it, buried in the mess which she quickly shoves aside to get a better look.

A small mannequin. And not just some random, generic store-bought thing.

It’s a mannequin of her. The exact image, even down to the torn jeans, stained undershirt and leather vest. It even has a miniature gold belt strapped around its waist, clearly meant to represent the Noble championship. Not even pausing to wonder how the fuck anyone had the time to make this thing, considering she only won the title an hour or so ago, she notices four strings hanging from each limb, but otherwise untethered...

And a fifth which runs from the head of the mannequin, connected to a small black handle in the shape of an ‘X’.

Billy picks it up, turning the object around in front of her face as she blinks in utter shock; her mouth hangs open, eyes staring in disbelief, looking like someone just walked over her grave.

And then, she remembers it. That fucking TV show, or whatever. Promised Land Playhouse. That framed picture during the intro that looked exactly like this damn thing, even down to the slack strings attached to it. And that creepy guy in the weird-ass sweater; Mr. Wright, or something like that.

“...alright, motherfucker. I’m gonna have some questions for ya next time we meet,” she says after biting back the unsettling feeling that wells up inside her, her shaky voice almost bubbling over with rage.

She’s not used to being gotten to; and the effort isn’t appreciated. Billy’s definitely not unnerved or disturbed by any of this silliness.

Couldn’t possibly be.

Right?

A meeting, occurring in a small clearing off a dirt road which leads towards the Bennett headquarters in Big Cypress National Preserve. One last spot of family business before the new year, as Billy stands in the path of a parked car’s headlights, smoking a cigarette idly as she supervises a hand-off between her people and a few gangsters from a Chinese crew out of California.

Her brother Bo had been making moves into territories the family traditionally had no business in. As far as the new patriarch of the Bennett clan was concerned, his father had been leaving money on the table by sticking to their usual area of operations. The moment Bray had been taken out of the game, he’d begun a policy of ruthless expansion.

It brought more money to their people, but more trouble as well.

Billy was fine with both; it kept her busy when she wasn’t in the ring.

The man in charge of the other side of this deal - a lanky, suit-wearing Chinese man who looked the exact opposite of the short, filthy, shabbily dressed Bennett girl - stands beside her, overseeing the trade.

She smiles at the stranger, who simply scowls as he puffs away on his own cigarette, not even turning to glance at Billy as he responds.

A small chuckle from the girl hints at the fact that she might not necessarily hold that exact opinion. Sure, conflict was bad for business... but good for so many other reasons.

Grunting in affirmation, the man nods once before giving a terse reply.

One of the Chinese boss’ crew slams closed the trunk of a car, turning to give the man in charge a thumbs up before moving towards the driver’s side. Looks like they’re done loading the goods, and without offering a response to Billy’s last comment, the outsiders begin to get back into their vehicles.

As they start their cars and begin to pull away, Billy snorts, spits on the ground, and looks up at the sky.

It’s timed almost perfectly, as bursts of fireworks begin to fly up in the distance, before exploding in the night sky; signs of the celebration taking place a few miles away, back at the compound.

And no more than a second after the fireworks start, there is a symphony of gunshots that sounds out from the brush on one side of the dirt road. The convoy carrying the drugs is torn apart by machine gun fire; glass explodes, blood fills the interior of the vehicles, and in seconds it’s finished.

A number of individuals - her family’s soldiers - clamber out of their hidden spots within the treeline, holding automatic weapons at their sides as they approach the cars to confirm the deaths of their ‘business partners’... and to repossess the drugs that had been loaded into the trunks.

Billy doesn’t pay attention to the ambush as it plays out, though; the sudden cacophony of gunfire doesn't even cause her to flinch. Her wide eyes simply stare up at the exploding fireworks, as she flicks her cigarette away and opens her arms wide to the heavens.