“Cripes on Friday!” I storm into the locker room, my gold medals bunched
in a ball in one hand.
That…that jerk! To think, Edge used to be one of
my best friends! And now? Well, he certainly isn’t earning any
brownie points in my book! Here I go out of my way to tell him that
he should kindly back out of his title shot against RVD’s Intercontinental
Belt, that he’s not at the top of his game, that he’s just not ready yet,
and he attacks me for no reason at all! What in the world is the matter
with him?
I fling my medals into my bag, stuff the rest of my clothes
inside, zip it up, and pause to fold my arms and pout as hard as possible.
I know someone’s in the room with me, and if he’s nice enough, he’ll ask
me what’s wrong. A real human being cares about others. I scowl
for a good ten seconds and hear nothing; at least, no one making motions
to comfort me. Finally, I sigh and whip around. “You know, I
think it’s rude not to-”
The Undertaker is reclining on a bench with a bottle in his hand, leaning
against the wall. He isn’t looking at me, but I clamp my mouth shut
and step back. But then I rethink my hesitancy. Why am I nervous?
I shouldn’t be. I mean, it’s not like the man’ll hurt me. We
both answer to Mr. McMahon; we both hate Ric Flair; I’ve got nothing to be
afraid of! I relax, then step forward to resume my questioning.
“I think that it’s rude not to ask me what’s wrong! When someone’s
upset, they expect to be calmed down by a close-well, by a colleague at least!”
Taker swirls the bottle slowly, takes a sip, but he still doesn’t look at
me. But then, he does have sunglasses on, so he could be looking at
me, but not showing it! That’s even ruder!
“Hey!” I snap, getting closer. “Excuse me, Undertaker, but I
think I’m talking to you! Now, I think that with us being on the same
side, we should be able to talk to each other when one of us is upset.
I’m upset now, so that means that you should show an interest in my problem.
So, come on!” I place my hands on my hips. “I’ll wait while you
get your words together.”
Taker stares at me for a second, then straightens up and begins to walk up
to me. When he reaches me, he just keeps going on by! I don’t
believe it; he’s just gonna walk on past me without even talking! I
don’t care whatever problem he had before I came in, but nothing warrants
this type of cold shoulder. “Yo, Taker!” I grab his arm.
Taker stops and turns his head to me; suddenly, a whiff of something pungent
reaches my nose, and I sniff and stare at the bottle in Taker’s hand.
“Hey, is that…is that alcohol?” I take in a deep breath, then snort
out the disgusting odor. “It is! That is beer! Did you
get Mr. McMahon’s permission to drink that?”
The man just looks at me-jeez, what’s his problem?
Does he not understand English? I step in front of him and poke my
finger at his chest. “Hey! Mr. Big, American, and Scary!
I asked you if you were allowed to drink that!”
He breathes out and cocks his head at me, and I blow out
a puff of air at how utterly rude he’s being. What kind of man just
stares at you like that? No words, no acknowledgement; he needs to
learn manners!
“Hey! Hello up there!” I tap my own head in
hopes of his Neanderthal mind responding. “Can you say anything?”
“I’ll start talkin’ when you stop sounding like a jackass.”
Well, that was uncalled for! “Hey!” I snap, waggling
a finger in his face. “I’ll stop sounding like a jackass when you-hey!”
That was even more uncalled for! “I do not sound like a jackass!
I’m just watching out for your welfare, mister! Mr. McMahon would say
the same thing.”
He’s smirking at me! The man actually starts smirking
at me! “You know what, Kurt? You’re actually right about that.
He would mention it. But you know what the big difference between you
and him is?” He takes off his glasses and tosses them aside, then steps
nearer. “He would know that when I don’t answer, he should shut up.”
My jaw drops open. How awful! “How awful!
How can you say that?! Mr. McMahon is a WWF owner! The only people
that shut up are those who shut up when he tells them to!”
“Like when he tells you to when he’s screwing your ass.”
Oh, how horrid can you get? I’m absolutely appalled
and disgusted, but I know the true culprit here. “See what happens
when you drink alcohol? I try to go around and tell people that you
are not a giant, filthy, redneck has-been, and you gotta go and say something
like that! Luckily, I’m nice enough to blame it on the alcohol.
Now, give it to me.” I snatch the bottle from his hand and start to
back up.
His hand is still raised like the bottle’s still there,
and he even looks a little surprised. He narrows his eyes and says,
“Angle…”
I shake my head and turn around. “Now, now.
When your head clears of the numbing, alcoholic affects, you’ll thank me
for this. Now, I’m gonna go give this to Mr. McMahon and make sure-”
My sight is blinded by blackness, and suddenly my air
circulation is cut off at the same time that I’m twisted around, and my back
slams into solid concrete. I dropped the bottle during this, and I
can sense that my feet have left the floor, and something large and thick
is wedged between my thighs. I blink my eyes clear and discover I’m
staring straight into two clear green irises…clear green irises that are
connected to a face…a face that’s mad as H-E-Double Hockey Sticks.
Undertaker’s lifted me up to his level, using his knee
between my legs to me to keep me there. His hand is around my neck,
and I reach up, but he tightens it as I get closer, so I lower my hand.
He glares at me for several seconds before speaking, and my Olympic-keen
mind knows better than to interrupt.
“First and foremost, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but no one
around here has been calling me a redneck has-been, so I’m gonna deduce that
has been your own thoughts. Secondly, I don’t give a damn about you
or your problems, and I certainly couldn’t give a damn if you cared about
mine. And don’t even think that I ever will.
“And third and most important, I don’t need anyone telling me when or where
to drink,” he growls, and air forces out my throat as he tightens his hold,
“so I definitely don’t need an Olympic punk like you to regulate my drinking
hours. And if you ever touch me or my beer again, I will whip that
ass so hard, you’ll think-”
Undertaker suddenly stops talking and freezes, which isn’t
exactly fun, since his hand freezes in a viper’s grip around my neck.
He pulls his face back and looks down at something between us. Now,
I know that I’m terrified, but I also know that I haven’t done anything…un-Olympic
to myself or on Undertaker’s leg, so mentally I rule that embarrassing option
out. I suck in and tug at Taker’s hand, and amazingly, he pulls the
rest of himself back so I can drop to the floor. I rub my neck and
cough experimentally, and when there doesn’t seem to be any type of permanent
damage, I straighten up to demand that Taker apologize to me. Not for
hurting me, but for saying that I thought he was a has-been. Quite
the contrary! I know that getting in on the good side of the legendary
and immortal Undertaker is the only way to go. The only reason I called
him a has-been was just to get some kind of freaking reaction from him!
He was like a statue! Of course, I didn’t expect that he would try
to nail me into the wall. So now, I want him to take back what he said
about me. It’s the least he can do for judging me wrong
I look up and notice that the Undertaker still isn’t looking
at me-or rather, my face. He’s staring down at…at…for the love of Grade
A homogenized! What is he looking at?! It’s not like I’m wearing
anything out of the ordinary; just my black singlet and kneepads and boots.
I had a match; what did he expect? That I wrestled Grecian style?
I put my hands back on my hips and stare back at him, but I can’t understand
the look on his face. Finally, I suck in a breath to just ask, when
his eyes shoot up to my own. His face clears, and now he’s scowling.
Great; now what?
But, he just takes a deep breath and steps back. Yanking his coat around
him, he stalks out the locker room without another word.