Alicia Goon 037: Unlucky day

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Two-and-a-half years wasn't nothing. It was the longest Alicia ever held a full-time job, and technically also the shortest. Even so, it felt like too little time to accumulate an entire trash bag full of desk and drawer clutter. She reached down by her chair and pulled the top drawer open--anything that could go home today would do just that. The job-critical stuff could stay behind as soon as she found any. The potpourri of pens, pencils, and business cards would remain undisturbed as part of the scenery. Alicia had no desire to see them again. Same with the phone book-sized stack of legal pads only ever used as a proving ground for janky pens. Queens of War probably provided their own stationery.

Actually, you know what? She reached into the drawer with both hands, scooped out its entire contents, and dumped the whole lot into a paper grocery bag at her feet. You just never know. Alicia shut the top drawer and opened the bottom one. Four unused Pupe's Full-Mouth Dentistry mugs, a Pupe’s Full-Mouth Dentistry paperweight, and an unworn Pupe’s Full-Mouth Dentistry T-shirt. Nah. She took one last quick glance before the long drive home and noticed the rectangular outline of something underneath the shirt and pulled it aside.

"Wow," whispered Alicia to herself. Long time no see. She held up the blue and white Yetis photo frame and stared transfixed at the photo of Zack and her. He looked just as she remembered–it was herself she didn't recognize. Too existential for a Friday. Into the grocery bag it went, alongside her Yetis business card holder and calendar. 

"Alright, Dr. Pupe," Alicia called in the direction of the break room. "I'm headed out."

The wrestler took the pink mobile phone from her purse and powered it on as she exited through the reception door. She stood in front of the desk and flipped open the cellular choke chain. Full battery, 5:46 PM, 3 text messages.

Fri Feb 6, 2004 
10:34 AM PARTY GIRL (370)167-5770
thx for sendin pix of mr c in the lil sailer sute tell baby preshpresh mommy will b home next weds nite 4 snugglez

10:36 AM PARTY GIRL (370)167-5770
r u rly not going 2 tha arena 2nite?

1:39 PM PARTY GIRL (370)167-5770

heyy i kno u sed ur not goin 2 tha plunj 2nite but if u do plz plz plz tell me asap ok l8r im gonna do some bumps with k7

One reply, and then she was turning it off. 

A long, heavy, sigh pulled Alicia's eyes away from the keypad. Dr. Pupe stood behind the reception desk. "I know you only have a week left, but can you please make an effort to lock the door?" Alicia looked away in embarrassment. "And just as a courtesy, can you please at least try next week? It's going to be busy with the two-for-one Drill 'em and Fill 'em Toothtacular kicking off Monday."

"Yeah, of course," said Alicia, sucking air through the gap in her smile. Dr. Pupe squirmed every single time. "Sorry about this week. I've been distracted. I promise I'll go out with a bang." 

Her boss seemed more cooperative now that she had signed her own release papers. With one foot out the door, Dr. Pupe's only remaining authority now required her consent. Polite little wave. She stepped out into the parking lot and hit "Reply."

5:49 PM Jennetti the Yeti Fan (297)117-5084

They're called moguls. B.V. hasn't bothered me since I attacked her on Saturday. I'm not going to the Plunj tonight. You bailed on me, so I'm doing it my way.

Send. Whoops. Regret. Hope she doesn't take that personally. A pit opened up in her stomach as she powered off her mobile. She didn't need to slip that barb in at the end, even if it was Party Girl. Alicia stewed on it with the white noise drive-time banter of Tammy Eagles and Steve-Steve in the background. The commute home gave her time to prepare for the inevitable essay worth of bile she would need to mop up. It reminded her of playing therapist during Nicole's "me-moments" as one-half of the Shooting Stars. 

She took the off-ramp and merged onto Cedar Blvd, the main thoroughfare and traffic corridor of the Sawmill District: the bad part of town. Had the timber harvesting company not abandoned construction in the '60s, it would've been a fitting name. Instead, it lingered on as a place of last resort--a boomtown without a boom. At least she lived on the side of town where the houses were condemned due to neglect rather than anything unsavory.

Alicia pulled up to the curb on on her side of the house. She missed occasionally seeing the lights on somewhere other than the basement window. After leaving the ER last Friday, Robert packed up his essentials and checked into a room at the Bear Den Inn on Diamante and 7th, roughly a 15-minute drive from Castle Winthrop. Not far, but not close. 

"Dadburn it!" grumbled Alicia, finding her favorite gopher hole at a painful angle. 

She followed the concrete archipelago of sidewalk between the bushes when a gasp caught her lungs off-guard. The door was wide open. From where she stood at the top of the stairs, she could see the hardwood entryway floor and what looked like broken ceramic. It looked cold. In lieu of words, thought, and action, Alicia gasped again. 

"What? Wh- no. No, no, no. No, I- I locked the door," she stammered. "I locked it. I did. I locked it." On unsteady legs, Alicia descended each step with both eyes trained on the darkness beyond the traitorous door. A croak slipped into her voice as she realized reality wouldn't grant a do-over. "I did. I promise I did." No sign of forced entry. "I did!" she retorted. 

Alicia reached into her purse and flooded the entryway with the sheer brilliance of My “Handy” Flashlight. Charging the needy little camping accessory had been an annoying way to spend her lunch breaks, but she couldn’t argue with the results as she swept the beam over the wreckage. Shattered, multicolored ceramic lamp remains littered the entryway, and several picture frames lay scattered on the floor among the ruin. Three-quarters of a fuzzy, grinning white and blue cartoon face stared at her helplessly from the floor. It was the biggest part of Zack’s graduation gift she could find.

A glimmer of silver caught the light at her feet. She didn't need a closer look to know what it was, but she took one anyway. A shiny, metal fishhook lay strewn among the debris. Another lay beside it less than two feet away. Another lay near that one, and Alicia thought she noticed a pinpoint of light reflecting off a fourth further down the hallway. She followed the trail of calling cards, already certain of where they led.

"M- Mr. Cattywampus?" Was that nervous warble her voice? 

She reached the end of the hallway, but the trail of fishhooks continued past the linen closet and into the bedroom. She rounded the corner, flashlight in hand, and surveyed the landscape of clothes, photo frames, and overturned furniture. A sinister path of fishhooks wove between the mess. The once-tidy bedspread lay in a haphazard pile atop the mattress. The lamp on the bedside table was still intact and left on.. 

"Come on, Mr. Cattywampus. Your mommy said she-" The words caught in her throat. "She said she misses you." 

Alicia pointed the light at what looked like a crumpled sheet of paper left on her pillow a few feet away. She took another step closer. It looked a bit like a page from a magazine. Another step. Or a Queens of War event program. Last week's, specifically. Alicia picked up the page in her trembling hand. The sight of her own face sneering back through skewered eye sockets turned her stomach. Fishhooks had been gouged into both eyes. 

"Please come out, Mr. Cattywampus," she whispered.

Her eyes returned to the mound of bedspread. Alicia wrapped her thick fingers around the navy blue comforter and peeled it back, revealing the outline of something tucked under the blue and white Yetis blanket. 

"No. No, no, please-" Alicia whimpered between rapid, shallow breaths. She pulled back the bedding. A limp, chubby sprawl of pink and orange fur lay beneath. Half-open, glazed-over eyes. Jaw slack. No rise and fall in the chest. The poor thing’s neck had been twisted until it snapped. 

"Mis-" Alicia's legs turned to soup and gave up on her. She threw her head back and screamed from her bedroom floor. She caught her breath and screamed again and again and again into her trembling hands. Just as Party Girl warned, Black Violet made running more painful than fighting. Once again, it wasn’t Alicia, but someone close to her who suffered. She screamed from her throat and lungs and belly in resignation, "FINE!!"

Something violent inside took over. Alicia threw open the closet door, grabbed a stick, and stomped to the car. Keys, door, ignition. The sporty yellow coupe hit the on ramp like a slingshot and blew past inferior traffic via the fastest lane available. She hit the Beaver city limits at 6:35 PM and the Plunj's staff and talent parking lot 11 minutes later.

She killed the engine and grabbed her weapon, emerging wild-eyed into the winter air. She shouldered open the talent entrance door and stormed straight back to production. Crew and equipment filled out the darkness with the work of running a show. Inside the ring, the pre-show match unfolded before what sounded like a small but steadily growing crowd. There sat Allen at his usual table. No sign of Sabrina. 

Alicia slipped through a gap in traffic and approached the co-owner, showrunner, and on-screen talent. "Allen, I need promo time."

"Okay, you do know I'm your boss, right?" snapped the man in the fire engine red suit. "I'm asking because you seem to've forgotten you've been here two months."

Alicia knelt next to the table, lowering herself to eye-level with Allen. "Please. Please, it's important. My safety depends on it."

His eyes rolled hard enough that Alicia could make it out in the dark. "And a potential liability issue, lovely," Allen remarked. "You could at least try to get on my good side."

"Give me 60 seconds in front of the camera with the microphone, tonight, or I promise you I will take them," Alicia growled. 

A frosty silence hung between Allen and the once again self-aware rookie. Whatever force piloted Alicia from her doorstep to this moment had left and stuck her with the bill.

Allen spoke up first, "30 seconds after the break following the first match. We won't be at the promo wall. I've got an interview with 'Rockstar' Jackie Skinner beforehand, so meet in the hallway by the champ's dressing room. If you're not there by the time we go to commercial, I'm scrubbing your spot."

* * * * *

Compared to the promo wall, the actual wall felt considerably less glamorous. The worn, light brown cinder block seemed to soak up any kind of noise except ambient, but with only one camera person and a sound technician, the operation was considerably more nimble. Once the previous interview had concluded, Allen and the team tore down and set up for Alicia's promo before the suicidally brave wrestler could feel nervous.

The young woman holding the camera spoke up in response to something in her headset, "Alright, we're live in 30 seconds."

"Thank you," said Allen with a nod. He turned to the rookie, lowering his voice to a severe tone. "Whatever you need to say 'for your safety,' it better also make some money."

Alicia thought it best to smile in frozen, nervous silence and run out the clock.

"We're live in five, four, three-" All according to plan.

Like flipping a switch, Allen's demeanor shifted from all-business to TV-ready the instant the camera light turned on. The comparatively short interviewer brought the microphone to his lips. "Allen Preston here backstage with The Goon on Friday Night Warzone. Goon, you asked for some time tonight because you had something you needed to say." Allen extended his guest the microphone.

Alicia cleared her parched throat. She spoke with the cadence and intensity of a hostage. "Black Violet, we’ve met a couple times before." Allen’s expression instantly fell as Alicia pointed to the bandages on either side of her neck. "You wanted to make this personal? Now it is. I wan--" 

KA-SLAM!!

Alicia heard a heavy metal door smash into the wall behind her, and what felt like a drawer full of steak knives dug into both shoulders. 

"Allen!" shrieked the woman holding the camera. 

The wet, breathy growl in Alicia's ear did little to drown out the shrieks and panicked screams. She reached behind her for a lock of hair, an ear, an eye–anything she could attack with just her fingers–but only further provoked the Mother of Nightmares. The world pinwheeled as two powerful arms yanked Alicia off her feet. The ground raced toward her and introduced itself with a painful flash of light, followed by a brief intermission. 

"Ohmygodohmygod. Get up. Allen, get up! Catch the door!" screamed the sound technician. 

The smooth concrete floor sucked the warmth from Alicia’s bones as she kicked at the one-handed iron grip around her left ankle. Her pounding heart drowned out the hum of fluorescent lights as Black Violet effortlessly pulled her quarry deeper into the maintenance hallway.  Where was her hockey stick? She didn’t remember losing it, but there it wasn’t. She looked back to find Allen and his shooting crew keeping pace from a safe distance.

"Black Violet. Black Violet! You need to let her go! Black Violet, would you at least answer a few questions? What is this about?" he shouted.

The lanky, unconventionally muscular TV champion rounded another corner and threw open a chipped and rusted metal door. The concrete floor no longer felt cool, nor smooth, according to the 22 stitches in Alicia’s back. Black Violet dragged her unwilling guest to the darkest corner at the back of the boiler room, where scraps of shredded black cloth and strips of white and mauve nylon lay piled beside the splintered remains of a hockey stick. 

Black Violet released her unbreakable grip on Alicia’s ankle, and the rookie immediately twisted up from her back onto all fours. She scrambled for the exit only to hit the concrete as her tormentor grabbed her by the legs and once again hauled Alicia back into the corner. Something hung from one of the pipes overhead that Black Violet wanted her to see. It looked like a large fabric or nylon bag, roughly seven feet in length, resembling either a very ugly suit cover or a very nice potato sack. Alas, no such luck.

Scarred, bony fingers pulled the zipper all the way down, exposing the interior, and a twitching claw-grip snatched Alicia by the throat. That wasn’t a suit cover. It was a body bag. She felt the roots of her hair tighten as the Mother of Nightmares secured a death grip on a french braid and pulled her in for a closer look. Black Violet had sewn something inside.

Fishhooks.

Hundreds of rusty fishhooks lined the interior of the nightmarish body bag top to bottom. Black Violet leaned close enough for Alicia to smell and taste the stench of putrefying concession food and coagulated blood on each humid breath. Black Violet wrenched Alicia’s head to face her and sized her captive up while Allen and the camera crew watched in silence across the room. 

"Last. Woman. Standing," rasped Black Violet into Alicia’s ear and threw the challenger to the floor. A tense second passed without incident, followed by another. Alicia scrambled to her feet and raced for the exit, collecting herself in the maintenance hallway just outside the boiler room. Allen and the camera crew followed close behind. 

Allen sounded disconcertingly upbeat as he brought the segment to a close. "You heard her, ladies and gentlemen! The main event for next Friday, February 13th will be Black Violet defending her TV Championship against The Goon in a Last Woman Standing match! You won't want to miss it!"