The Avenger Vs. Annie Lennox

We all were living a lie
I guess you got what you wanted
So I will settle for a slaughterhouse soaked in blood and betrayal

"How'd you get my number?"

"Now, now. You know I can't say, Ana-"

"Are you gonna give me a name or not, you fuckin' knob?"

This was the third time Annie Lennox had changed her phone number and yet somehow, Chase Rex had gotten ahold of it. Again. She thought she'd weeded the garden properly each time but it always attracted grubs. The circle constantly drew smaller and smaller.

"I heard someone got themselves signed to a contract in the US."

A typical deflection technique for Chase manifested itself yet again - he'd outright ignore points of contention and proceed as nothing happened. Birds can't change their feathers. Annie let out a frustrated chuff. She remained silent after, which Chase interpreted as a green light to carry on.

"Whose wagon did you hitch yourself to this time, hm?"

Annie paused. There were a thousand different things she wanted to say but none of it would mean anything. Any point she tried to make would fall on deaf ears even over a year later and after hours-long conversations regarding Chase's proclivity to know everything - every nook and cranny - and have control over it.

"How many dimwits with really long coats you can sit on and just enjoy the ride they got there?"

Still nothing. He wanted a fight if for no other benefit than the inkling that he'd caused an unwelcome commotion. That was the last - and weakest - of the controlling tendrils he had hooked in. It was just enough to remind Annie that he was there. Her defense to Chase's baiting showed no sway as her voice didn't reciprocate on the other end of the line.

"Go on then, how many? Or did they decide my name on your résumé and thing that was credit enough? How much money are you fixing to make off of my reputation?"

The heat in Chase's words grew hotter and hotter with each syllable. He wasn't getting what he came for and that was starting to become an irritant. With a short, yet loud, bark he became quiet and listened for anything, anything so he could feel like it was a job well done. The credence in making Annie miserable for a day, hell, even a few hours melted away almost instantaneously when three words from the other end were finally uttered with a surprisingly placid tone.

"Are you done?"

Annie expected a full-on, ferocious verbal assault; one she was already playing to herself in her head, her rebuttals being playfully bounced around and noodled with like a dinghy out in the middle of a hurricane. As the seconds ticked by, it had become evident that the roles were now reversed though not for the same reason. Chase couldn't see it (though in hindsight, she would have loved for him to put eyes on it himself) but Annie's mouth twisted into a rather pleased smirk.

"Take care, Chase."

CLICK

That sound was just as sweet as the sight of the enemy's white flag amid a haze of black powder.

---

If I'm alive tomorrow
I will alleviate the pressure
by cutting you out of me

Perhaps it wasn't the reaction he had hoped for, but that phone call did get Annie up and out of her newly-leased Baltimore apartment. It wasn't a matter of distraction, but celebration. Victories like that rarely ever came about - in fact, she couldn't ever recall a time when she'd left him speechless after a sharp, thorough goading. The city had the perfectly golden haze of "magic hour" accompanied by a chilly snap being carried in by the sea breeze. She had no plans nor inkling of where and how she was going to revel in her small victory; even though she planned on being a one-woman party train, all she'd ever heard was how friendly and inviting Baltimore was (personal determination to be decided). Eventually, familiarity came over Annie like a warm blanket - though faint, she could hear the muffled tones of Black Sabbath, Sex Pistols, Henry Rollins, and Pantera as a sampling of the eclectic punk/metal mix that sonically filled the air. They were the sounds a wild teenager adored after she'd left home with nothing but a backpack full of clothes and a fistful of pounds, but before she'd come into contact with something far more dangerous.

When she was first struck by the notes of home, it laid down a road map she followed by ear all the way to a dive bar. You may think of some little punk joint nestled in an alleyway with a discreet sign with an entrance hidden by a staircase. Well, you'd be right save for the alleyway and discreet signage; instead, this tight little staircase was snuggled between a vacant building and a quaint little breakfast place that either happened to be a matter of coincidence or a brilliant move by some restauranteur in an attempt to cash in on the early morning last call crowd. Even if you didn't notice the stairwell down to a door painted like the Union Jack, the large "The Drunken Jester Pub" in neon would certainly catch an eye. Annie gave the front of the establishment a once-over before she took down the stairs and through the door. It was everything she expected a place with a name like that and playing that variety of music would be; the patrons were as loud as the music and packed on stools and at tables in a hall that Annie figured was no wider than a bowling alley save for the far end, which opened up more for a stage with a sign on an easel reading:

LIVE MUSIC
FRI - SAT - SUN
5 PM - CLOSE

The extra space in front of the stage made for more intimate shows, the kind where you can feel a bassline in your bones. In any other venue, a woman with a gelled-up mohawk and dressed in a typical punk fashion from the patched leather jacket down to the beat-up boots would certainly draw attention but here, it allowed her to quietly slip in through the crowd and to the bat without any more than the expected rowdiness from this variety of clientele.

"What can I get ya, toots?"

Even with a packed floor and bar, the tenders were on it. The invitation to make an order came from a middle-aged man dressed rather plainly which offset the ink visibly starting at his hands and ending just where his head met his neck. He spoke with a bit of a bark to make sure he was heard.

"Vodka gimlet!"

Annie delivered her order in the same tone while she planted her hands on the bartop to lift herself up and forward. Just as he'd confirmed her order with a nod, the stool next to her became available and she was quick to fill it. Seconds later, the vodka/lime concoction was put in front of her. There was a pause in which the bartender narrowed in on Annie while the others hustled behind him to get the other patrons taken care of. His hands planted themselves on the station just behind the bartop and he angled his head just the way he had when he'd taken her order.

"That accent ain't from around here."

Reading between the lines, it was clear that this place was used to a certain set of regulars which she was not apart of; that was nothing new since most dives like this were close-knit. She took a swig of her drink before offering an answer.

"Nah, just moved into the neighborhood.

"Oh."

A bit of surprise, which Annie was left to figure out if it was pleasant or not. Another sip.

Well shit, welcome to The Drunken Jester. Didn't know if you're one of those hipster Yelpers that keeps trying to raise the rent 'round here. I'm Davey. On top'a being your bartender tonight, I'm also the owner and proprietor of this hole."

His eyes left Annie, went to her glass, then back to her.

"Round two?"

She took the time to pass a glance at her glass as well and was a tad astonished to find it empty. Davey certainly made them easily drinkable. Annie scooted the glass forward with a nod which was reciprocated. Much like the first time, a new drink was pushed in front of her in a matter of seconds.

"Annie. Good t'see you're not lettin' 'em gentrify you."

A bit of humor struck her vocally. Davey received it with a chuckle.

"Guess I'm responsible for keeping the property values down. How'd you end up in Bawlmore?"

It took a minute, but Annie was able to finally come to rest on "Bawlmore" just being "Baltimore" under the native accent. She could lay out everything - the slip from Chase's grasp, training to actively compete in a wrestling ring, the nagging anxiety that'd given her stomach a twang as a reminder - but it remained a thought as she glanced around the place. She was here to unwind, not rehash every miserable point that'd brought her there.

"Don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

Davey's face said it for him. "Try me."

"I'm wrestlin' for Carnage."

He scoffed but then realized the blank look on Annie's face was loaded with the intent that she was deadly serious. Davey's brows raised in surprise. As further proof, Annie pulled her phone out, opened it up to the booking email, and turned it so it was visible to Davey.



"Well, well. Big time prizefighter."

His words were tinged with a well-meaning, comedic hue. The phone was slid back to its owner and placed back into the pocket it was pulled from.

"The dirtbags that come in here like to throw down now and then, so you'll fit in just fine, Annie."

Dirtbags, and with such a loving tone. In fact, Davey had said that one loud enough so that it wouldn't go unnoticed by the surrounding patrons. It didn't rub them the wrong way though, given their joyous, boisterous response that put a grin on the bartender's face.

"Your bar seems a bit...misplaced. You know, with the big Jack on your front door and all."

As different as it may have been to have a Brit in his bar, it was equally as odd for Annie to see her home country's flag used at the entryway only to find out a Baltimore native owned the joint.

"Yeah, that was the pop's call. He opened this place as soon as he came over in the seventies. Didn't have the heart to change it when he died. Another?"

Annie thought that was an odd word to end on until Davey tapped the bar top. When she looked down, she saw an empty glass. Another gimlet down and she didn't even remember drinking it. Her nod was an affirmative to Davey's inquiry. While he put the next together, she finally took the time to give the place a good once-over. Much like the door, not much had changed in the decades since its opening. Annie's viewing came to an end when she realized a new drink had been parked in front of her.

"I like the place, but don't you think it could use - I don't know - a little facelift?"

Davey's face scrunched up like he'd smelled shit.

"Hear me out. Clean up the front, change the inside up, maybe update the sound system and lightin'?"

Now that she mentioned it, most of the music sounded like it was being played on a lo-fi over speakerphone in a car with the windows down and a lot of the lights over the stage were older than most of the crowd that came in. Assuredly, the other staff probably had the same thoughts but didn't share them since they expected him to lose his mind if they did. That assertion came with a few incidents the long-timers could site as proof. Even with the changes noted, Davey still felt a little off even just talking about it. After all, it'd been this way since his dad opened it and aside from some lulls now and then, the business stayed pretty good. Magic hour welcomed the cover of night in with a more chilling breeze at its heels. The conversation carried on, Annie finding herself comfortable with the rogues' gallery that frequented the establishment. So much so that she was awoken by a streak of sunlight in her face that was briefly interrupted by Davey's shadow. She bolted upright, only to realize she'd slept in a booth at The Drunken Jester.

"Sorry to wake ya partner, but I found a rigging company that was good with giving me a quote this afternoon."

She rubbed her eyes and gave the blaring headache a minute to cool its jets and turn to your run of the mill hangover throb.

"What are you on about?"

"You told me that the first thing I needed to change was the lighting in here. Wasn't cutting through the cigarette smoke."

Annie waved Davey's light explanation off in favor of something a little more curious.

"No no, not that. Partner?"

Davey's brow furrowed until he remembered how many times he refilled her glass; beyond that, how he didn't collect on a single one of them. Fuck.

"Yeah, partner. You told me you "could turn this place into a punk rock haven that would print cash faster than we could count" and that you've "had a decade of bar experience under your belt". Ring any bells?"

It did, vaguely. Mum did always say her mouth would get her into trouble and she was consistently correct in that regard especially after a few too many. However this time, there weren't black eyes and bleeding knuckles to contend with.

"Sort of."

Annie winced when Davey moved ever so slightly and she caught sun right in the eye.

"Did my mouth write any other checks I'm not prepared to cash?"

"Well, no..."

Davey's voice trailed off. He'd hoped after some spurring, her recall would be reinvigorated. Now that it was clear that it wasn't, he had some big news for Ms. Lennox.

"...but your hands though, they wrote a check for fifteen grand for me to "do something about that shite you call furniture". Before you get on my ass, I did tell you I wasn't just going to take your money, and I sure as shit wasn't going to open up a fifteen thousand dollar tab. Look, you've got good ideas - ideas that the rest of the staff and the customers responded pretty good too - and a DIY attitude perfect for a punk bar so I decided to give it a shot. Oh, and your check was good too."

The door was wide open for Annie to offer a rebuttal and as bad as she wanted to get right to it, the first few syllables were a sputtering mess.

"So you took a check from a chick that wanted to buy into your business while she was shitfaced?"

Davey considered that one for a moment, but eventually arrived at an answer.

"Listen, you can't automatically assume I can use my better judgment, let alone assume that I have that kinda capability to begin with. If you want in, you got it. If not, you're going to have to give me a little bit before I can buy your stake back from you."

Without another word, Davey turned and went back to business. Annie took a bit of time to regain her legs after her slight bender the night before, which opened the window of opportunity for every thought she had to come flooding in at once. Even with all the commotion that Chase's name, face, voice, even his words, were all present. She'd hoped the move across the pond would seal the deal and be done with it but for now, it was still a problem she'd shove to the back instead of solve. Maybe a new enterprise is exactly what she needed to suffocate the old flame.

---

I found my bottom line
dead on the front lines
I know I'll never go home
So set fire to your ships and past regrets and be free

Annie Lennox sat on the top step of a downward trending staircase. Her body was slumped forward, supported by her forearms draped across her knees. A cigarette was clutched between the index and middle finger of a hand, which had been recently drawn on; the fiery red glow of the ember and the subtle glow of neon with a slight shade of sepia from the streetlights overhead cut through the night and illuminated the new smoke that clouded around her. At the bottom of the steps, where the camera was stationed, was a door painted to look like the Union Jack. The sound from behind it was a muffled mix of yelling and indistinguishable music.

"When I saw the card for Ultimate Carnage VI, saw my name across from "The Avenger", and that this match was an opportunity to get a shot at a belt, I figured the office had lost the plot, yeah? How else would you explain goin' from wrestlin' a man in a crab mask on a preshow that was filmed in an empty arena to match two of the biggest show of the year - and the biggest of my career - against a fuckin' superhero for a crack at the Chaos Championship? Either someone somewhere saw somethin' in my first match for Carnage Wrestlin' that made them believe that I had the goods or they're lookin' to make an example out of me by puttin' me on a sliver fuckin' platter for the practically winless boy wonder, hm?"

The hand with the cigarette left its perch across Annie's knee so she could take a long, thoughtful drag.

"If this was even a year ago I might've told you that option B was likely the right choice."

She finally released the inhale which renewed the momentary haze that'd been hanging around when the cameras were first turned on.

"I just recently learned that opportunities don't always come when you want or expect them to. That's the shit that keeps me up at night- will I ever be ready? If it were up to me, chances like this would never be dropped into my lap because I'd always answer that question with "fuck no". I'd never be ready and that pit in my stomach and rock sittin' in the bottom of my heart would only weigh me down more. I guess this is gonna be a battle of superpowers; I don't mean flyin' around the city or shootin' people with lasers from the eyes or bench pressin' a car. I mean real-life superpowers.

Heart. Determination. Inner strength. Whatever you wanna call it, that's what I'm here for. Before I crossed the pond, I spent match after match gettin' tangled in barbed wire, goin' through glass, gettin' driven through tables, havin' skewers jammed into my scalp, and each and every time I got back up, wiped the blood out of my eyes, and asked for more. If you want the win, Avenger, you'll have to bring me to the brink of death."

Just as smoothly as she had the previous one, Annie took another pull from her smoke.

"To be clear, I'd never say you weren't a superhero, yeah? I've watched the tapes and more importantly, I've listened to every word you've had to say; off on parallel earths, talkin' to parallel Avengers, tryin' to build a team to keep the most ultimate threat to our existence ever which is..."

Annie couldn't quite recall, so she stuck her cigarette between her lips while she dug her phone out of her pocket. A moment later, her features were highlighted by the glow of the screen.

"...the worst wrestler in the multiverse winnin' world championships."

It was a battle to keep the laughter in, let alone her lips from curving into a grin. The phone was slid back into the pocket and the cigarette was reclaimed by her fingers.

"So best I can tell is that your real-life superpower is bein' absolutely buttfuck insane. I mean, why not hunger? Genocide? Disease? Nah, instead you're more concerned about some unknown bellend winnin' some gold. Everyone's gonna laugh that one off - hell, I did - but I also recognize that means you're shy of a full pint. What's got me watchin' your tapes over and over again isn't the silly costumes, the strange comics depictin' yourself and infinite other yous, or the mildly Adam West's Batman way of speakin'. It's the well-hidden ability to be a hell of a cruiserweight coupled with a mind that could go anywhere at any time; might get a nice guy superhero come Ultimate Carnage VI and every show for the next year or there's a sliver of a chance we might see an unhinged mental patient with a vibrant bloodlust that's fresh off of their medication, who knows? What I know is that I'm expectin' the absolute worst. I expect The Avenger to finally snap and come flyin' down to that ring foamin' at the mouth and covered in blood that isn't even his and you know what?"

Though the question was rhetorical, Annie gave a pause.

I'm okay with that. I came to Carnage Wrestlin' for its namesake. I came here for a bloody batterin'. I came for the violence. More importantly, I came for the Chaos Championship, whether or not I'll have to plow through you to get there.

One last time, Annie took a mighty haul off of her smoke.

"See you on December seventh, Avenger."

The smoke billowed from Annie's mouth while she sent the now-spent butt down at the camera with a hard flick. She stood, climbed the few steps between her and street level, and left the shot. With that, the shot faded to black.