This is the day that we'd all agreed upon. The time of the monthly, sometimes bi-weekly, meeting where we try to iron out any kinks in Vince's grand design has arrived yet again. Damned if I know what it is though. I usually spend the time zoning out until something involving me is said. I'm either doodling on a pad or playing Hangman with Rob Van Dam. It's a good thing I've got Trish watching my back. I'm sure I would've had my ass reamed out long ago if it weren't for her. She's turned out to be a pretty good friend.

Leaning against the cool concrete wall of the hotel, I pull up the collar of my wool coat, trying to block out the cold wind. I have a perfect view of the pedestrians passing by. I begin to make up little stories for the people who pass by me. The redhead that glides past me with a bag of groceries is on her way to her boyfriend's house to surprise him with lunch. She'll find him with her best friend and then, in a moment of rage and heartache, smash up his sports car with a baseball bat. I'm pretty sure that that isn't going to happen, but it certainly would be interesting.

As I try to think up another scenario, two figures exit the hotel. As they walk down the block, it finally dawns on me who those two are and I can't help but smile. William Regal and Lance Storm, wearing 'I Love NY' t-shirts and matching sweatpants with the American flag on them, are stalking in the direction of the meeting place. I can see the steam rising from their ears.

"What the hell happened to you?" I yell before they get out of earshot.

They stop in their tracks and turn around.

"What does it look like?" Regal sneered.

"Well, from those pants, it looks like you raided Kurt Angle's locker."

Lance cringed. "Please... Don't say 'raid'."

"Ah... You two were on the losing end of that Super Bowl bet, weren't you?"

Grumbling a reply, they turn their backs to me and continue down the street.

I smile, reveling in the fact that at least I'm not the only one who had bet on the Raiders. But I'm pretty sure I'm the only one of the losers that's actually looking forward to fulfilling their sentence. I stare up at the blue sky as a brown haired, blue-eyed angel floats through my thoughts.

"Shane!"

I'm shook from my daydream and turn towards the speaker... And then look up at the seven-foot man standing next to me. "Heya, Kane."

"Hi... You okay? You seemed a bit spaced out."

"Yeah, I guess I was. Sorry."

"No problem. I was asking you if you knew what was going on around here."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me put it to you this way: When I stepped into the lobby, I saw Christian throwing rose petals at Edge's feet as they made their way towards the dining room."

"Ah... Super Bowl."

He quirks his eyebrows. Well, I assume he did. One can't really tell with that mask and all.

"Bets were made on the outcome of the Super Bowl. Edge obviously won."

"I see."

It's coming. I just know it.

"Did you -"

"Yes."

"Oh."

He leans back against the wall, imitating my position. Reaching into a coat pocket, he produces a pack of cigarettes. I can't help but watch his fingers as he deftly plucks a slim, white stick from the casing and places it between his lips. He begins to pat his body looking for something.

I realize what he's searching for and flick open my silver lighter, igniting the flame. "Need a light?"

"Didn't know you smoked," he replies, the cigarette dangling hypnotically from his lips.

"There's a lot that you don't know about me." The flame dances along the end of his cigarette until he pulls away, inhaling deeply, taking a long draw from it.

"Is that so?" His nostrils flare and smoke wafts from his mouth and nose.

He's staring intensely at me now. It's as if he's trying to discover all of my secrets by looking into my eyes. He stands in front of me, intimidating, but not menacing. Cigarette smoke fills the air between us, saturating our clothes, clinging to our skin and hair.

Fingering the Gothic cross around my neck, he says, "You've changed."

"What makes you say that?"

"You haven't called me 'Citizen Kane' since I've been out here."

"Disappointed?"

"Intrigued."

I'm not sure what that is supposed to mean. Not only is that an ambiguous statement, Kane's mask obscures any helpful facial expressions. I'm about to ask him what he's trying to say when he places his burning cigarette between my lips. I inhale deeply. He smirks. Turning abruptly, he begins walking down the street.

"Come along with me to the meeting," he says over his shoulder.

I know it's not a suggestion.