Alicia Goon 027: Been there done that

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Descriptions of blood and violence

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By the time Alicia’s boots hit the floor, Party Girl had already thrown up the ring skirt and started digging around for something to do some damage with. Alicia approached the ailing “One Shot” Jaime Carlyle, who lay on her side trying to massage the soreness out of her neck. Hope it worked, thought Alicia with a sneer as she wrapped both hands tight around Jaime’s throat and pulled the high-flier up from the scuffed floor. She stood side-by-side with her opponent and hoisted the feather-light Jaime Carlyle up onto her broad shoulders.

“Goon! The Goon, over here! Use this!” screamed Party Girl.

The inexplicable role model lobbed a metal trashcan at Alicia’s feet. Alicia turned and pitched backward, sending Jaime helplessly down onto the trashcan with a Backdrop that left the high-flier writhing on the deformed metal. 

“Pick her up again!” shouted Party Girl, continuing to direct traffic.

With a groan, the goon stood up from the floor. A quick glance at her tag team understudy confirmed the plan as the VIP of Ultraviolence excitedly clutched the trashcan lid tight in her hands. So that’s the sort of manicure four figures can buy, thought Alicia. Pretty alright, I guess. 

Alicia dragged Jaime Carlyle up to her knees but hesitated as something overhead cast a shadow. The crowd gasped as Bridget Slaughter vaulted off the top rope with a Flying Cross-body Splash. The infrequent flier crashed into Alicia and Party Girl with both gravity and velocity on her side. It wasn’t a pretty landing, but the last-minute tag partners lay flattened beneath her.

Now it was Bridget’s turn to go to work. The Demolitions Specialist reached for the trashcan lid and rose to her feet before anyone else. Bridget made the jet-setting celebrity pay for her intrusion with a massive two-handed swing with the lid that parted the air and came to a stop against Party Girl’s skull. 

“Who invited you?” Bridget shouted at Party Girl, who lay clutching her head on the floor.

A few feet away, Alicia tried to crawl for safety, but Bridget quickly covered the distance and smashed the trashcan lid into the rookie’s back, causing her to collapse to the floor, gasping for air. A black combat boot rose and hung just out of her field of view. Alicia knew where it was headed, but she couldn’t react in time.

An urgent, stabbing pain beyond anything Alicia had ever experienced poured through every tendon, bone, and joint in her injured hand. Bridget bore down with her full weight, digging her heel into those swollen knuckles as Alicia howled in anguish on the floor, feverishly tugging her hand away. With each full-strength pull, she inched a bit more of her hand out from under the torturous stomp. 

Bridget changed tactics and twisted her boot into the back of Alicia’s mangled hand, grinding it with her heel like a cigarette butt. Suddenly, there was a break in the violence. Despite both Alicia and her tag partner having been laid out on the floor and easy pickings for the trashcan lid-wielding veteran, Bridget instead approached her downed comrade-in-arms and offered a hand.

“You okay?” asked Bridget.

“Fine,” answered the visibly irate Jaime Carlyle as she took a moment to steady herself.

Bridget lifted the ring skirt again and retrieved a long, wooden folding table from under the ring and set it up on the floor. With the table in place, the Two-Woman Army split up. The high-flying Jaime Carlyle headed into the ring with a folding chair from the timekeeper’s area while Bridget pulled Alicia up from the floor and rolled her lengthwise onto the furniture. From Alicia’s vantage on the table, she could see Jaime in the ring playing to the crowd, stomping the canvas in rhythm as throngs of Two-Woman Army fans joined in. Jaime set up the chair a few feet from the ropes as the crowd carried on with the beat.

The strength had returned to Alicia’s muscles, but she remained in place on the table. Inside the ring, “One Shot" Jaime Carlyle raised an unseen sniper rifle to her cheek, took aim, and fired on her prone target, then turned on her heels and took off towards the far cables. While the Sharpshooter was firing pretend guns, Party Girl had cleared out the cobwebs. Rather than rejoin the fray, she watched from the floor and waited.

After a few muddled seconds, Alicia and Party Girl found each other’s gaze. Eyes still halfway shut, Alicia winked at the media anti-darling. She thought she noticed a little smirk as Party Girl shot her a wink back. Does she know what I’m thinking? The rookie’s eyes darted back to the ring. She saw Carlyle hit the cables and come off them hot, racing towards the chair she had set up by the ropes. Alicia gave her partner a quick nod. Here she comes. Caught up in the excitement of the incoming aerial bombardment, Bridget failed to notice the living clothing label less than 10 feet away lining up a do-or-die shot. 

Three steps to go between Jaime and the chair. Outside the ring, Party Girl sprang from the floor and threw herself at the oblivious Demolitions Specialist with a massive running leap.

“Sup!” belted Party Girl. Bridget instinctively turned, offering up her jaw for a jet-propelled haymaker full of brass knuckles. It looked as though someone unplugged Bridget Slaughter as gravity took over. Party Girl caught Bridget’s dead weight in her arms and dragged her closer to the table. 

Alicia watched as Jaime Carlyle took a running leap onto the chair and then off, soaring over the ropes. The instant her feet left the seat of the chair, Alicia rolled off the table, clearing a nice, open spot for the high-flier to land. Party Girl slung Bridget onto the vacated table and watched with a gleeful smile as Jaime Carlyle stretched out in midair. 

Confidence turned to horror as Jaime checked the landing zone again moments before impact—just enough time to see the imminent friendly fire. With a loud wooden snap, the Sharpshooter landed a picture-perfect Flying Elbow Drop on her motionless partner, driving both competitors through the wood and down to the floor. The Two-Woman Army had been routed. 

Party Girl pointed at Jaime while shouting at Alicia, “Get her in the ring!”

Alicia scooped the grounded high-flier out of the wreckage and off of the insensate Bridget Slaughter. The constant, gnawing pain in her hand and wrist had grown too intense to ignore. Tomorrow would be misery, but if it was going to hurt anyway, Alicia figured she should at least make it worthwhile. The rookie gritted through the pain and lifted Jaime up in an overhead press. With a couple-step running start, she lobbed the much smaller competitor over the top rope and back inside the ring while a delighted Party Girl laughed and clapped at the display.

The impromptu tag team climbed back into the ring side-by-side, leaving Bridget Slaughter in a motionless heap on the floor among the splintered wood. Alicia headed for those black duffel bags piled in the Two-Woman Army’s corner. A mischievous smile spread across her lips as she withdrew “One Shot” Jaime Carlyle’s T-shirt sniper rifle and a shirt. She locked and loaded as the disoriented sniper crawled for the ropes. I will avenge you, children. Alicia raised the barrel, pointed it at Jaime’s temple, and didn’t hesitate.

Thunk-thunk.

The shot hit its mark true. Carlyle lay motionless, face-down on the canvas. Alicia discarded the weapon and hoisted the Sharpshooter up across her broad shoulders, setting her up for a Samoan Drop. 

“The Goon! Goon! Hey, The Goon! Over here!” shouted Party Girl. Alicia perked up. The voice came from above and behind her. “Yeah! Put her down right there!” 

Happy to oblige, Alicia threw herself backwards, flattening Jaime on the mat. Rather than go for the pin, Alicia rolled off the unwilling human crash mat, clearing the way for her partner as she soared off the top turnbuckle. For a long second, Party Girl seemed to hang in the air, unbound by gravity as she executed a graceful front flip and landed on her back across the Sharpshooter’s prone carcass, finishing her off with “The Afterparty.”

The crowd roared as Party Girl stood up and posed with her hands in the shape of a heart while Alicia dove on top of the thoroughly wiped-out Jaime Carlyle to secure the pin.

For the first and only time in the match, the referee played a role. “One! Two! Three!”

Ding ding ding!

Alicia leapt to her feet and threw both fists in the air, speechless and reeling at what just happened. Holy heckins, that’s a winning streak! thought the wrestler on a winning streak. The same crowd that had given her a warm welcome exploded into white-hot cheers at the odd couple tag team’s surprise success and chemistry.  

Alicia turned to her savior of the hour and tried to make herself believe what she was seeing. “Thanks again. Again.” She extended a hand to shake Party Girl’s, morphing it into a fist bump at the last second to match her tag partner. “Like... thank you.” Alicia threw her arms around a stiff and quite uncomfortable-looking Party Girl. “Thank you so much for helping me.” 

The sound of fighter jets whooshing overhead and a sick guitar solo cut the outpouring of gratitude short as the raucous crowd all left their seats at once, and a renewed surge of cheers shook the building. After two brutal battles between Alicia and The Reinforcements, the crowd wanted to see the feud escalate further.

Commander Jill McKill marched through the curtain and down the ramp, brandishing the camouflage folding chair. Her eyes remained locked on Party Girl as she descended the entrance ramp and approached the semi-conscious Bridget Slaughter. McKill projected a hateful stare that seemed to slide off the prizefighting socialite—then directed all her contempt elsewhere. Jill reeled back and swung the chair as hard as she could, delivering a sickening blow to Bridget’s forehead that dropped her where she stood.

Cheers turned to horrified gasps and then boos while Jaime watched from the ring on her hands and knees in stunned silence. The former Commander turned a dispassionate gaze to Jaime before walking listlessly back up the ramp, dragging the chair behind her. The crowd didn’t let up, airing their displeasure with a ceaseless chorus of boos. Someone in the crowd threw a camo T-shirt at the traitorous McKill. It was still rolled up tight from the mortar launcher. On the WarMachine video board, Alicia could see a blend of sadness, fury, and just a hint of catatonia on her expression.

Carlyle’s face turned a deep crimson, and a murderous look filled her eyes. She scrambled for her rucksack and tore it open, pulling out what looked like a steel-plated elbow pad. Like a bolt of camouflage lightning, Jaime closed the distance in an instant. Combat boots pounded the entrance ramp, followed by a giant leap. The elbow pad-enhanced Death From Afar slammed into the back of Jill’s skull like a sniper’s bullet, instantly turning out the former commanding officer’s lights as pockets of heartbroken Reinforcements fans watched the faction disintegrate before their eyes.

“This is probably a good time to peace out,” whispered Party Girl.

The former hockey player grabbed her stick and followed her rescuer out of the ring and past Bridget Slaughter, who lay barely moving on the floor. Tensions briefly escalated on the rampway as the victors passed Jaime Carlyle on her way to check on her partner, but both sides went their separate ways without any further post-match extracurriculars.

Bewildered at how fast everything just happened, Alicia flashed Party Girl a did-you-just-see-that look, but the celebrity was busy showing the crowd she knew how to make a heart shape with her hands. 

“I guess Bridget really was going behind Jill’s back,” remarked Alicia.

Party Girl’s eyes went wide with shock as she covered her mouth with both hands. “Ohmygod was she really?” she squealed, grinning ear to ear as she stopped in her tracks in front of the curtain. Alicia suddenly had her full attention. “How did you find out?” 

Alicia hesitated. “From you. You at least implied it.” 

Party Girl looked perplexed for a moment, but eventually, her memory caught up. “I did say that!” Her expression transformed into an impish smile as she recalled the exchange. “I think I might’ve said that to quite a few people that day.” Another moment passed. Her jaw dropped and her eyes twinkled as the timeline of events came together. She looked back down the ramp at the faction in shambles. “No way. Oh my God, did I-?”

Giselle giggled to herself as they walked through the curtain and into the back. In the glow of a dozen monitors, Allen was nowhere to be found. He had probably accompanied Sabrina to the hospital. Alicia hoped she would see her former trainer on Monday when she found out if she got a contract or cut.

The conversational void that hung between them made every step from the production area to the backstage corridor feel like drowning. Alicia needed to extract herself. “Thank you so, so much, Giselle. Really. I need to see about getting a ride, but if I can ever return the favor-”

Giselle batted her eyes and cheerfully cut Alicia off, “Always happy to help out a fan!” Alicia nodded with a big smile, hoping it looked genuine. The celebrity’s demeanor changed. “I need to show you something in my dressing room.”

That was sudden.

“Um,” responded Alicia diplomatically. “I don’t know if I should do that.” Do celebrities count as strangers?

Eyes wide, big smile, classic Look. “You really should!” Giselle pleaded. “If you do, I’ll drive you home.”

Surely there had to be an exception for following a stranger to a second location if they were offering a ride. Alicia wasn’t unreasonable. “Will it be quick?” she asked. Giselle nodded. It wasn’t just suspicious—it was weird. It felt like a set-up. Still better than waiting for the bus in the cold. “Okay,” Alicia relented. 

There were the star dressing rooms, and there was the door with the Party Girl logo. Alicia decided if the room was full of dead stray animals, she would just call a taxi. With a flourish, Giselle opened the dressing room door and invited her in. Alicia had to concede that a room full of dead strays would’ve been easier on the eyes. Floor-to-ceiling pink. Puffy pink sofa. Pink makeup chair. Pink bowl full of only strawberry-flavored Chus. She hoped Giselle was telling the truth about it being quick; this couldn’t be good for her eyesight.

Giselle slammed the door shut and locked it. Darn it. I knew she was going to murder me. That was a silly mistake.

“Why was Black Violet trying to bite you?” asked the fashion icon. For the second time, Alicia saw Giselle Tillman’s famous Look slip. “Did you touch her belt?”

Alicia froze. “Oops.”

Giselle stared back at her, slowly nodding in agreement. “Oops.”

Alicia Goon 026: Backup plan

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Descriptions of violence and injury

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“Thanks for bringing me all the way back here,” Alicia whispered as she sidled up by the curtain.

The crew member replied with a hurried nod and rejoined the bustle of backstage staff, leaving Alicia by herself. She could feel a dark stare on her from somewhere.

Suddenly, a baker’s dozen Japanese cheerleaders, male and female, poured through the curtain in front of her, with the Human Blur at the lead. Connie Rocket. The track star strode tall as she approached, bruised and triumphant. She held up a hand to her entourage, halting the procession.

“Hey. Tonight’s your fifth match, isn’t it? Big night.” Her voice was light and soft, almost musical.

“Hunhhh?” replied Alicia. She talked to me!

“I’ve been following you since our match. I know you’ll do great. For what it’s worth, I’ll be cheering for you.” She pointed to the crowd of boosters behind her. “We all will be! Right, guys?” As if waiting for their cue, the squad assembled themselves into a wall of smiles, pumping fists, and quiet shouts of “ganbare” and “good luck!” matching the Rocket’s enthusiasm.

The rookie was floored at the outpouring of encouragement. She had been wrong earlier; this put an early dismissal from work to shame. Alicia forced words through the stunned silence. “You too! I mean thank you!” A smile spread across her face. She had missed the feeling of actually knowing the name of someone in the building who was rooting for her.

The victorious Connie Rocket slapped the newcomer on the arm. Not a conciliatory slap, but one of encouragement—this one didn’t sting. The Rocket smiled through a pained grimace as she clutched her left shoulder. “I’d tell you not to be nervous, but I was. Leave it all out there, and you won’t have any regrets.” Connie gave the rookie a polite little wave and headed for the production exit with her entourage close behind. 

Alicia took her place behind the curtain. She had a mostly clear view of the live feed on a nearby monitor and watched as the Two-Woman Army made their usual descent from the rafters to the stage. They disconnected their harnesses from the dangling cables, and Alicia realized she now stood less than 10 feet behind her opponents on the other side of the curtain. It was a perfect opportunity. The thought of turning the tables with an ambush of her own made Alicia’s heart pound. She fidgeted with the peeling tape on the shaft of her hockey stick. Payback could wait. It wouldn’t hurt to have backup, either.

The Two-Woman Army stood at attention in front of the curtain—Jaime Carlyle on the left, Bridget Slaughter on the right—identically dressed in camo pants, combat boots, aviator sunglasses, and black workout crop tops. They had matching “2WA” tattoos on their upper-right biceps in solid black letters in front of a pair of crossed machine guns.

Both carried identical Army-issue rucksacks on their backs, except Jaime had a kendo stick protruding from hers. Bridget Slaughter’s long brown hair had been tied in a ponytail that hung down to her mid-back. The Reinforcements’ self-described “Demolitions Specialist” towered over her tag partner and complemented the impressive height with a chiseled physique.

On the left stood “One Shot” Jaime Carlyle. She kept her blonde hair trimmed just below the ear, and both arms were covered from shoulder to knuckle in tattoos. Alicia figured The Reinforcements’ elusive Sharpshooter couldn’t have stood taller than five-three and probably weighed a buck-twenty at most. Despite the gap in size and strength, the Army vet made the most of her small stature with explosive aerial offense and a flying elbow strike she called “Death From Afar” that could take the head off the Statue of Liberty. Like mirror images, Bridget and her tag partner both extended one arm out to their sides as two black duffel bags descended into frame from the rafters and into their waiting hands.

The camera cut to the golden-throated Guy Brody in his usual black tuxedo, microphone in hand, preparing to announce the Two-Woman Army to the ring. “The following no-disqualification tag team street fight is scheduled for one fall-”

“One fall!” echoed the fans.

“-With no time limit. Pinfalls and submissions can only take place inside the ring, but there are no count-outs, no rope breaks, and no rules. Anything goes!”

The Two-Woman Army disconnected the heavy-looking bags from their harnesses and took off at a lock-step P.T. run down the ramp towards the ring. They tossed the two duffels up and over the top rope, followed by their rucksacks, and slid into the ring after them. Alicia used to love this part of their ring entrance, having herself been a Two-Woman Army fan from the second Queens of War show she attended right up until the first moment she met them.

“Introducing first, at a combined weight of 292 pounds, the team of ‘One Shot’ Jaime Carlyle and ‘The Demolitions Specialist’ Bridget Slaughter. They are two-thirds of The Reinforcements. They are shock and awe. They are the nuclear option. They are the TWO! WOMAN! AAARRRRRMMYYYYYY!!”

Jaime and Bridget knelt by their respective airdropped duffel bags, unzipped them, and reached inside. Bridget got to hers first, extracting a nearly four-foot-long metal tube, circular base plate, and matching set of extendable legs, all Army green. With practiced, effortless precision, she set to work assembling the apparatus. A few feet away, Jaime withdrew a sniper rifle with a cartoonishly oversized barrel, complete with attached bipod and scope, then overturned her duffel bag, spilling a half-dozen tightly rolled black T-shirts onto the canvas. 

Bridget had finished assembling the mortar launcher, dropped a rolled-up camouflage-pattern shirt into the barrel, and covered her ears as the garment soared at least a hundred feet in the air at a high arc and landed a few rows deep in the crowd. She adjusted the sight, checked her trajectory, and launched another article of machine-washable ordinance.

At the other end of the ring, Jaime had taken up a prone position to watch her partner’s six. With the bipod extended, the cotton/poly sniper peered through the scope and picked her target. She visibly exhaled as she squeezed the trigger, firing a subsonic cloth tube round into the chest of an elementary schooler, bowling the overjoyed, wheezing youngster over while the cameras rolled. Without taking her eye off the scope, the Sharpshooter reached up and opened the bolt action on the rifle and chambered another shirt from the pile. The sniper racked the bolt and took her shot, doming the child’s concerned sibling with a matching souvenir. 

Alicia turned from the monitor as the Two-Woman Army continued to commit wardrobe crimes. Behind the staging area desk sat Allen, the co-owner of Queens of War and full owner of the most violently turquoise suit Alicia had ever seen, and she had seen a bunch.

Allen looked up and noticed Alicia’s eyes on him. “Last chance to impress.” The rookie suddenly felt ill. Her hopefully future boss seemed to realize how it came out and clarified, “I meant that to be nice, by the way.” Alicia forced a smile and nodded, but Allen had already turned his attention back to the monitor at his desk. His eyes remained locked on the screen for several seconds before turning back to Alicia. “You’re on.”

Less than a foot from the curtain, Alicia gasped. Her eyes went wide. She slapped and then hit herself in the forehead with her good hand. “My equipment bag!” In her haste out the door, she had abandoned it next to her locker. Wait. Did I lock my locker? “Oh no. No no no no no,” Alicia whispered to herself. Please stay out of my stuff. 

She pushed through the curtain, stick in hand. Four-thousand pairs of eyeballs poured their heat upon her, but this time, her heart didn’t waver. She slammed the butt of the hockey stick down on the stage as sections of the assembled crowd took the cue to join in.

Bang.

Once again, and again, and again, she slammed the stick against the floor, picking up the rhythm as more of the crowd started warming up and stomped along. Not enough to shake the building, but Alicia swore she felt it shiver. She hastened the tempo until the rhythmic stomps and claps turned indistinguishable from applause. Alicia wheeled the stick overhead and slammed the blade down, bringing the crowd to a hush. She readied herself, pulled the stick back, and unloaded a slapshot before moving to the edge of the stage, signaling with her injured right hand to the crowd to keep making noise for Iron Maiden’s long overdue in-ring return.

“And their opponents: introducing first, wrestling out of Longstat, Minnesota and weighing 193 pounds, she is ALICIA ‘THE GOON’ WIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNTHROOOOOOOOP!!”

Alicia checked her footing to ensure she was clear of whatever “gimmick” was about to emerge from the stage. She flashed a smug grin at the Two-Woman Army pacing around the ring. They had piled their rucksacks in their corner. Jaime pointed back with her so-called kendo stick. In reality, the weapon amounted to a half-dozen or so bamboo poles bundled together and taped at the ends in a design that more closely resembled a “Singapore cane”—the type employed in corporal punishment—and the Sharpshooter looked desperate to use it.

Bridget seemed more laid back—at least as laid back as anyone with several feet of chain wrapped around both fists could look. About a yard of slack hung between the commando’s two hands like a steel garrote. Alicia remembered cheering Bridget on as she choked a submission out of Terra Frost with that chain just a couple months ago. Was that irony? Maybe, thought Alicia.

The lights dimmed, and a haunting pipe organ dirge blasted over the speakers. An otherworldly red glow bathed center-stage as Alicia waited. Any second now, her partner would emerge. At any moment, the famous Iron Maiden would appear. Indeed, without any further delay, her backup would arrive, and they would march side-by-side to the ring together. Whenever she wanted to. Anytime now.

Impatience turned to concern. Alicia looked back at her opponents in the ring and watched in horror as the smiles slowly spread across their lips. The lights unceremoniously came back up, and the red glow of the stage now felt quite worldly. A murmur rose among the crowd as the entrance music faded. Above the curtain, the WarMachine video board cut from the words “Iron Maiden” written in CGI blood to a live camera backstage showing paramedics and production crew huddled around a pair of legs and black boots motionless on the floor. 

A dented, bloody folding chair at the edge of the shot implied what had transpired. Medical staff tried to keep the camera operator back, but whoever was holding it pushed through the glut of humanity to capture the aftermath. At the center of the urgent crowd lay Sabrina, busted open from ear to ear, her hair and face drenched in claret. 

Then Alicia saw the arm. Her heart plummeted, and she didn’t know if there would be a bottom. Half of Sabrina’s right forearm pointed one direction while the other half pointed another, indicating what looked like a clean break between the veteran’s right elbow and wrist.

Off-camera, Allen shouted something that sounded like “turn that darn thing off,” but worse. Seconds later, the feed cut out, leaving the three wrestlers once again the focus among a sea of concerned fans. 

Alicia’s blood flash-boiled as she hefted the wooden hockey stick in both hands and stormed the ring. She didn’t care how dearly it would cost her. Even if it meant leaving in an ambulance, Alicia intended to hurt her smirking opponents as badly as she possibly could. And when she got out of the hospital, Jill McKill could have her bed. The crowd cheered the outnumbered goon as she charged down the ramp and slid into the ring under the bottom rope. She was going to make them respect her.

Ding!

Alicia got to her knees and threw up her weapon just in time to block an incoming kendo stick shot aimed between her eyes. In came Bridget to throw a loaded haymaker, only to stop in her tracks and double over from the butt of a hockey stick thrust into her solar plexus. The former hockey player awarded herself two minutes for slashing as she drove the wooden blade into Jaime’s shin, eliciting a miserable yelp from the Sharpshooter and a groan of sympathy from the crowd. Jaime dropped to the canvas and tried to roll to safety, kendo stick still clutched tight in her hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” hissed Alicia as she raised her weapon and swung again, striking the fleeing Army member flush in her right shoulder before she could roll out of range, causing Jaime to once again cry out.

The goon rose to her feet, saw Bridget Slaughter starting to get her breath back, and fired a back elbow into the larger Army member’s mouth before stalking after the retreating Jaime Carlyle. Alicia raised the stick again and swung it full-strength into Jaime’s exposed back, dropping her to the canvas. Alicia had made the nimble high-flier stay put. She raised her weapon again, looking to end the smaller woman’s involvement in the match with one savage blow. With one of them down, maybe she could-

The cold sensation of metal wrapped around her throat as Bridget snared the distracted rookie from behind and tightened her grip on the chain. Alicia snapped the heel of the stick back into Bridget’s forehead, but with that injured hand, there wasn’t enough power behind it to dislodge Slaughter’s grip. Desperation took over as Alicia dropped her stick and reached up to tug at the restraint, fighting for enough slack to steal one more breath. Cheers and groans poured from the stands in equal measure as Jaime swung an eye-watering free shot with the kendo stick into Alicia’s ribs that left a white-hot streak across her torso.

The crowd’s initial swell of excitement at the newcomer’s bravery began to fade into a muted acknowledgement of reality as the numbers game caught up. Another sharp crack of bamboo drove the point home, turning the remaining cheers into a murmur of concern as the audience settled in and braced for the inevitable. Jaime Carlyle again squared up to her target, raised her kendo stick, and froze as an electronic dance track shattered the resigned silence. 4,000 fans leapt to their feet as a catchphrase filled the arena and sent the crowd into a frenzy. 

“Don’t get jealous,” Party Girl's voice chirped over the speakers. “Get like me!”

All eyes turned to the curtain as the scourge of a thousand nightclubs flew down the ramp toward the ring. Alicia could see her presumed rescuer fitting a set of hot pink brass knuckles around her right hand as she barreled toward the melee. The music cut off, and into the ring slid the pink and yellow dervish. In a flash of neon, Party Girl popped to her feet and fired a pink canvas high-top sneaker into Bridget’s chin that turned her body rigid and her limbs to jelly.

Another terrible crack echoed through the arena as Jaime Carlyle rushed in from behind and swatted the wrestler in designer clothes across the back with her kendo stick. Party Girl winced in pain and shot a mule kick behind her, burying the sole of her high-top in Jaime’s stomach and doubling over the smaller half of the Two-Woman Army. The pugilist-socialite grabbed Jaime around the neck with both hands and dropped to the canvas in a seated position, driving the Sharpshooter’s chin into Party Girl’s shoulder with a quick Stunner. Jaime lost her grip on the kendo stick and flopped to the canvas clutching her head and neck while rolling out of the ring and onto the thinly padded floor for a breather.

Amidst the fluorescent chaos, Alicia stood up and took a moment to assess the new situation. A few feet away, Bridget had pushed herself to all fours while America’s favorite brat backed up for a running start. Party Girl took a few quick steps, leapt into the air, and brought the sole of her right sneaker down on the back of Bridget’s head, driving her face into the mat with a running Curb Stomp, better known to fans as “Last Call.” 

Party Girl glanced back over her shoulder at the bewildered rookie and tossed her pink-tipped blonde locks. She pointed excitedly at Jaime Carlyle rising to her feet outside of the ring while gesturing for her impromptu partner to follow.

“Come on! Let’s have some fun!” cried Party Girl. Alicia stood in wide-eyed silence, unsure of what just happened. The fashion icon put her fists to her hips and cocked her head. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Heck yes, I do!” said Alicia, matching her rescuer’s enthusiasm.

“Tight.” Party Girl flashed a peace sign and took off at a sprint, launching herself between the top and middle ropes with a Suicide Dive onto Jaime Carlyle that sent both women to the floor. Alicia rolled out of the ring under the bottom rope to join her. It was nice meeting someone with shared interests.

Alicia Goon 025: Spectator

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None in this installment

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4:35 PM. In a few short (long) minutes, Alicia would be living the daydream of every wrestling fan who ever punched a time-clock. A pro wrestling legend would show up at her job and whisk her away to team together in the biggest match of her life.

She stared at the Boston fern doomed to photosynthesize its last far from its native land.  The sickly, yellowing crime against botany hung in the window suffering, clinging to life, and blocking the view of the parking lot. She wondered if Sabrina was already outside waiting. There was no way of knowing from where she sat behind the desk.

Dr. Pupe had already taken the last patient of the day back. She could probably move it now. As long as she re-hung her horticultural nemesis before the doctor finished, she’d be fine. Better to die a hero than live a coward. Alicia slipped out of the office, shut the door behind her, and sauntered to the entrance. She unhooked the decorative atrocity, gritting her teeth through the pain as she cradled the hanging basket in her right hand and eased the weight off its support. The potted horror show went to its usual time-out spot between the magazine rack and a chair in the corner. Justice having been served, the rogue employee headed back towards her desk.

Just as Alicia reached the exact midpoint between the fern and the office, she heard Dr. Pupe’s honking down the hall. “Your teeth are fine. I’m not even sure why you keep coming back. I’m not getting them any cleaner.”

Is it too late to live as a coward? Run to the office and hope he doesn’t notice, or go back and re-hang the fern and risk getting caught?

A man’s voice replied, “I would just feel better if I came back in six months.”

She covered the distance at a tiptoed sprint. Craning her head to watch for her boss, the worst fern heist-doer in Illinois struggled to carefully guide the basket back onto its hook with her uncoordinated, bruised hand and stiff, barely responsive fingers. She slipped it into place with her left hand just as she lost her grip on the pot with her right, spilling a mountain of dirt onto her cream-colored sweater. At least her pants were black. Fortunately, the dirt that fell on the carpet was barely visible beneath all the dry, brown fern leaves. Are they called fronds? It didn’t matter. She would look it up later.

“Suit yourself. I’m just going to tell you the same thing,” Dr. Pupe reiterated, somehow rolling his eyes with his voice. “Maybe floss less? Hi, Alicia. How’s the fern doing?”

The back of Alicia’s scalp burned hotter than the sun. “Yep, looks good.” With quiet, shameful urgency, she returned her greatest adversary to its stronghold and office-jogged through the door and behind the reception desk. “Um, thank you, Mr. Woods. No copay today. How’s July, uh, 16th? Same time okay for you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. What were you doing with the fern?” asked the patient, distracted by the still-swinging decorative flora.

“Making sure it looked good,” Alicia explained, knowledgeably. She braced herself and glanced at her boss. Stern eyes. Brow furrowed. Arms folded across his coffee-stained scrubs. Lecture locked and loaded. She scribbled a date gingerly with her aching hand onto an appointment card and handed it across the desk. “See you in the summer!” Please stay, the condemned office assistant pleaded silently. Don’t leave us alone. The door swung shut.

“I notice you left the office door unlocked,” observed Dr. Pupe helpfully.

Alicia hated that tight, smug little grin. The gotcha face. She hoped Sabrina brought a book. This one would be a while.

With the turn of a handle and a blast of freezing air that carried all the way back to the reception desk, in walked Sabrina wearing a black winter coat and wool cap, casual as Alicia had ever seen her.

“Hey, I thought I’d come inside. I got tired of waiting in the car. You ready to go?” She looked past the man in blue scrubs with the beef jerky tan as a flavor of confusion Alicia had never seen before settled upon the dentist’s cured features. Finally, Sabrina regarded Dr. Pupe with an up-nod. “Hey. I’m Sabrina. Nice to meet you Doctor… uh…” she checked the bicuspid-shaped nametag, squinted, and then squinted harder. She stifled a laugh. “Sorry.”

“She’s my ride,” explained Alicia, smiling at her tag partner yet again making the save. “If you want to sit in the lobby or something, go ahead. I can’t clock out until 5:00.”

The dentist’s prominent frown bent his ash-gray mustache into an upside-down U. He seemed to wonder exactly how and when he lost control of the situation.

“We’ve kind of got something we need to get to,” Sabrina told Dr. Pupe matter-of-factly. “She can go, right? It’s like 4:50.”

Alicia checked the clock. It was 4:42.

Dr. Pupe saw the opportunity and seized it. He spun around to face his grinning employee behind the desk. “It’s fine, Alicia. You can go. I’ll clock you out.”

It was comforting to know that nothing Alicia’s opponents did tonight could floor her quicker than that. She sprang from her chair, shooting the rolling office furniture into the copy machine behind her with a crash. She slung the strap of her equipment bag over her shoulder before launching her gym bag over the desk and into Sabrina’s waiting arms. The liberated employee burst through the door, shut it behind her, and jogged to her friend before flipping a U-turn. 

“Ohhhh! Almost did it again!” Alicia chastised herself through an irrepressible grin, wagging her finger as she trotted back to the door, keychain in hand. “Seriously, thank you Dr. Pupe.” Seeing Sabrina struggling to keep a straight face made Alicia struggle, too. “Have a great weekend!”

On her way out, Alicia shot a quick glance at the window-hanging on death’s door. This isn’t over, she threatened, in case plants can read thoughts.

Out the door. Seatbelts on. Hit the gas.

Sabrina checked her blind spot and merged onto the highway. “At least he let you go early, but I believe the stories. Guy’s got a real kick-my-ass face. Seems like the kind of guy who would rig up a bunch of mirrors in his bedroom so he could watch his own ass when he fucks.” 

Alicia slowly nodded in agreement, face frozen in shock.

“Hey, Alicia. Alicia! You’ve got a spider on you,” said Sabrina. “Big one.”

Her eyes reflexively went to her left coat pocket where Sabrina was looking. Many more eyes stared back. Hirsute, spindly, segmented legs. Mandibles. A thorax, probably—another word to look up later.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” shrieked the spider chauffeur as she squirmed and contorted in her seat. She turned to her tag partner to articulate further. “AAAAA! AAAAAAA! AAAA!!” It was a toss-up who looked more shell-shocked, but maybe the spider.

Alicia finally hit her limit on frozen terror and switched over to the violent kind just as an eight-legged hamster the size of a drink coaster started galloping up her chest to say hello. Defaulting to the wounded right hand, she gave the literal hobo spider a fatal handshake. It was full of pudding. The thorax(?) popped like a lukewarm water balloon in her sizeable palm as she wrung her captive into marmalade. Alicia held her goopy mitt out in front of her as the acutely nonsolid innards clung to her trembling, contorted claw. 

“You feel better?” asked Sabrina. Alicia shook her head and tried not to wonder how long she had been carrying a hitchhiker.

The remainder of the drive passed a quarter to a third as eventfully. With the arena still on the horizon, Alicia could blame the butterflies in her stomach on the spider guts in her hand. Now, in the parking lot of the Plunj Drain Cleaner Arena, there was no more denial left. She was scared. Alicia helped herself to a final moment of calm before everything mattered. Breathe in, breathe out. Sabrina popped the trunk, and the partners piled out to claim their gear.

“What’d you bring to the potluck?” asked Alicia with an eager me-next smile.

The Professler explained her thought process, “I figured they’ll have plenty of chairs under and around the ring, so we’re good for blunt-force.” Sabrina craned her neck looking up at her towering partner and slapped Alicia’s bicep. “I mean, look who I’m talking to.” She unzipped the side pocket of her gym bag and pulled it open to reveal a half-dozen wooden slats about the size of a man’s wallet. Mousetraps. “So you know how I’m always talking about ring awareness? Might want to watch your fingers.” The rookie’s eyes went wide. This felt like an escalation. “And, of course, psychological warfare is just as important as the regular kind.”

With giddy dread, Alicia’s eyes turned to the unopened pocket. The head trainer unzipped it and reached right in, withdrawing something bulky, shiny, and needless.

“A staple gun?” sputtered the lunatic’s former student.

“Staple guns,” Sabrina corrected. “Brought one for you, too. What about you?”

“Well, shoot,” remarked Alicia. “I should’ve gone first. Now I’m embarrassed because yours are too good.” She felt her cheeks flush and made sure the zippers on all her bags were closed. “You’ll just have to see, but don’t get too excited.”

Sabrina shut the trunk and the pair strode into the venue. As they crossed the threshold into the arena, something felt off. Alicia’s pulse had quickened ever since the city limits, but this was a different rhythm entirely. She barely held up her end of the conversation as her nervous eyes darted from corner to doorway to shadow. There was the trainer’s room, only a few feet from where Black Violet ambushed her. 

Alicia pointed to the alcove with the locked maintenance access door. “Have you ever been in there?” she asked.

“What? Why? No,” Sabrina answered, confusion evident on her face. Her eyes trailed down to the compression wrap surrounding Alicia’s injury. “How’s the hand?”

Alicia shook her head as she held up the wrecked appendage. “Bad. No Gut Checks tonight. I doubt I could even get Bridget up over my head. Even a little thing like Jaime will be tough.”

At the sight of her locker, Alicia’s priorities righted themselves. It was gameday again. Gym bag open, ring gear out. She no longer had to pretend to be an office assistant. Only one thing felt more comfortable than jeans and a hockey jersey.

She knelt by her black hockey bag and unzipped it. Her fingers closed around the maple wood goonclub, and she unsheathed it from its polyester scabbard. Alicia didn’t know how she knew that word. Probably Zack’s renfaire phase.

The locker room thinned considerably as the night wore on until Alicia and Sabrina sat alone side-by-side on a bench near the back. The rookie took a sip of H-Twenty and set it on the bench by her gym bag. “Hey, Sab, thank you for everything. For training me, for saving me last week. Doing this match. You’ve been amazing. Whether or not I get signed, thank you.”

Sabrina seemed to tense a bit. “Yeah, you too. Thank you for working hard.”

Alicia didn’t have a better segue. “And I’m sorry for saying you want to take my spot.”

The 29-year-veteran looked at the floor in silence, “Well, it’s not like it wasn’t true. For what it’s worth, I never thought you were ingrateful.”

“Ungrateful.”

“I was also going to apologize for hitting you, but I think I’ll hold off on that one for now,” Sabrina remarked.

The locker room door creaked open. A tall, dark-haired woman wearing a headset leaned through the doorway and asked, “Sabrina, you ready?”

Sabrina’s demeanor visibly lifted for the first time since arriving at the arena. She snatched her gym bag in one hand and bounded to her feet. With a little up-nod to her partner, she headed for the door. “Alright, I’ll see you out there.”

Alicia reached for her hockey stick leaning against the wall, and then stopped. “We’re not going together?” she asked.

“Oh! You’ve never seen my entrance,” replied Sabrina with a genuine glimmer in her eye. She couldn’t contain her smile as she explained, “I need to go get into my gimmick. It’s a thing that comes up from the floor.” Unable to find the words to describe it, she made up the difference in gestures. “It’s- you’ll see. It’s really cool.”

It was the first time Alicia had ever seen Sabrina act like a dork. She hoped they could still be friends if- she shut down the thought. One way or another, she was getting signed.

The heavy door slammed shut as Sabrina and the crew member exited into the corridor. A pit opened in Alicia’s stomach, and she remembered her fear. Not again. She sprang to her feet. “No no no no no no no,” she whispered, panic rising in her voice. Alicia rushed past her open locker, pushed the door open, and prepared to step out into the hallway.

CRACK!

Alicia’s heart jumped into her throat. She wheeled around 180 degrees expecting to find pure hate staring back from behind the voids of unblinking eyes and a thick stench of blood and tooth-rot. Instead, she saw nothing. Nothing wasn’t necessarily good, either. Subconsciously holding her breath, Alicia took a couple furtive steps closer to where she heard the sound. Her stick had fallen on the floor. Okay. Okay, I can do this. It just slid and fell. What are you scared of? You are a professional wrestler. Alicia crept towards her stick, shaking, breathing shallow, awash with dread as she bent down and slowly reached for her weapon.

“Alicia!” called the same raven-haired woman with the headset.

Kinetic terror shot through every extremity. Alicia stood bolt upright as panic seized the controls. She brandished her stick like a baseball bat. “HI! OH MY GOSH! WOW!” she shouted back, her eyes halfway out of her skull.

“You’re almost up,” said the crew member. “Did I startle you?”

“Yes!” answered Alicia, nodding earnestly. “Can I please walk with you?”

The woman dressed in all black shrugged. Nerves had left Alicia’s mouth arid. One more swig of H-Twenty for the road. She checked the bench where she had set it down, and then the rest of the locker room.

“Where is it?” Her blood turned to ice.

“Where’s what?” the crew member asked.

Only whimpering a little bit, Alicia power walked anticasually past the woman in black and into the corridor. “Don’t worry about it. Hurry up, and I’ll follow you.”