BOOTYLICIOUS

SMACKDOWN! JULY 12TH, 2001

The car drove on in silence. Lance didn’t like distractions when he was driving and, since he was the most reliable of the four of them, they played his way.

Mike was a leadfoot with a trail of speeding tickets chasing him across North America. Justin was flaky and got lost at least four times a journey, sometimes for hours on end. And as for Rob? He never even volunteered to drive, content to just call shotgun and deal calmly with whoever climbed into the seat next to him. So, usually Lance drove. He didn’t mind, being something of a control freak as he was.

Suddenly, the silence of their late model rental car was shattered as a voice issued from the passenger seat.

“Mike, can you handle this? Lancey, can you handle this? Justin, can you handle this? I don’t think you can handle this.”

And then there was silence again.

Mike Awesome apparently couldn’t handle it. “Rob, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, man,” Rob assured him. “I was just singing.”

“That wasn’t singing. That was talking. What the hell was that? It was talking, that’s what it was. What the hell you laughing it?” he demanded, glaring across at Justin.

“Just Rob…you,” Justin replied simply. “Plus, RVD singing Destiny’s Child is pretty damn funny.”

“Destiny’s Child,” Mike repeated. “Hey, that’s those three black bitches who go around practically naked, right?”

“That’s them,” Rob nodded, peering out the window.

“Well, I’d like to get me in a fatal fourway with those dark mamas. You get what I’m saying, Rob? You get what I’m saying, Lance?”

“God, Mike, I get what you’re saying,” Justin told him, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, well you don’t count, ‘cause you’re a fag, right?”

“Fuck you, Awesome,” Justin muttered, turning away.

“Shit!” Mike cried. “Rob, you wanna trade or something? This fairy wants to fuck me.”

“Mike,” Rob replied patiently. “If every time someone said ‘fuck you’ they actually wanted to do it, you’d constantly be walking funny.”

“Yeah, I would,” Mike agreed. “Hey!”

Justin was laughing again.

“Can we possibly get some quiet in here?” Lance asked suddenly. “The safe operation of a motor vehicle is not a laughing matter.”

“Well, hey, I’ll drive,” Mike offered. “We’ll get there a hell of a lot faster and if Justin here’s gotta fuck someone, it might as well be his old tag partner.”

“The Impact Players reunion tour,” Rob added.

“You both seem to forget,” Lance informed them. “That the Impact Players were more than Justin and myself.”

“Yeah, Jason and Dawn Marie,” Justin nodded.

“Yeah, Lance, that’s the bit I never got,” Mike replied.

“What don’t you understand, Mike?” Lance asked.

“If I was gonna have a fourway, I’d have three bitches, not three dudes. That way two of ‘em can get into some of that lesbo shit while the other one sucks me off.”

Suddenly, the car pulled over onto the shoulder of the road.

“What the fuck are you doing, Lance?” Mike demanded.

Lance simply brought the car to a stop and switched on his hazard lights.

“When traveling on an interstate highway, speed should be maintained between 55 and 65 miles per hour. That’s eighty-eight point five and a hundred and four point six kilometers per hour, people.”

“So why the hell don’t you get the car back on the road?” Mike demanded.

“Protest duly noted and taken into account,” Lance told him, pulling back into the traffic. “If it’s not too much trouble I’d like you to do the same.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mike cried.

But Lance was already concentrating on the road.

“You offended him,” Justin said simply. “You know what a good little boy our Lance is.”

“Fuckin’ eh,” Mike agreed, but then he shut up.

Everything was quiet again, until Rob decided to sing.

“I don’t think you’re ready, for this jelly. I don’t think you’re ready, for this jelly. I don’t think you’re ready for this. My body’s too bootylicious for you, babe.”

Mike clenched his fists, but said nothing. Until Rob sang it again.

“Rob, shut the fuck up! What’s that shit mean, anyway? What are you singing?”

“I think, Mike,” Lance replied. “That what Rob’s trying to say is that he doesn’t think we’re ready for his jelly because his body’s too bootylicious for us.”

Justin was laughing uncontrollably. “I don’t believe it. Lance Storm just said bootylicious.”

Rob just kept singing the song, over and over again.

“Shit, Rob. You’re right. I can’t fuckin’ handle it. Put the radio on. Country, whatever. Anything’s gotta be better than that shit.”

Rob peered over at Lance, who gave a single nod, giving him permission to switch the radio on, then pressed a few buttons until music blared out of it.

“…Can you handle, handle me? I don’t think you’re ready, for this jelly…”

“No fucking way!” Mike roared. “No fucking way!”

Rob cringed at the loudness of the music.

“Sorry, Lance,” he sighed, turning it down.

“That’s alright,” Lance replied. “I think I’d rather listen to your song than Mike’s endless whining. It’s somewhat addictive.” Still, he didn’t join in as Rob and Justin sang along.

Mike was fit to burst. “Fuck this shit. Next time I’m riding with Rhyno.”

“Can’t, man,” Justin told him. “Rhyno’s riding with Tazz, Raven and Dreamer. There’s no way you’d fit in the car.”

“You calling me fat?” Mike asked.

“No, man. I’m just saying you’re a big guy.”

“Yeah, I am. Hey, wait a minute. Are you macking on me, Credible?”

“No way, man. You’re too big for me. Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

“Justin likes the little skinny ones,” Rob put in. “Right, Jus? How you holding up, anyway?”

“I’m okay,” Justin replied bitterly, lapsing into an emphatic silence.

“Skinny,” Mike repeated thoughtfully. “Hey! You two fuckers were fucking, weren’t you? Storm, I always knew you were a fuckin’ fag. How many fags we got in this car?”

“Justin was completely faithful to Jason,” Lance informed him.

“But you would have fucked the little bald freak.”

“He had Dawn Marie,” Justin reminded him. “What would he have wanted with me? They don’t call him the straight shooter for nothing.”

“Yeah, I remember Dawn. She was hot as fuck. What’s she doing now, Lance?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lance replied. “We haven’t spoken since I left for WCW. She didn’t appreciate it. Accused me of selling out.”

“We did sell out,” Mike agreed. “That’s why we’re so damn rich. Live this moment, boys. It’s beautiful.”

They lapsed into a thoughtful silence, which remarkably was broken by Lance.

“If I can be serious for a minute. Had anyone else been putting any thought into our diva situation?”

“What, Lance?” Rob frowned. “Taking about Dawn got you thinking?”

“No, I’ve been thinking for some time, ever since Paul E told us he was putting the crew back together.”

“We’re not all here,” Mike reminded him. “We still need Corino, Mikey, Cyrus…”

“Cyrus,” Rob repeated. “I hated that asshole.”

But for once, Justin was with Mike. “Yeah, get Cyrus on color, Joey Styles on play by play.”

“Oh my God!” Rob cried in his best Joey Styles voice. “He’s a good guy.”

“I wasn’t talking about the old crew, although I’d like that too,” Lance stated in his usual emotionless voice. “I was just thinking. We all got back together. RVD, you and Dreamer joined up. We’re only missing one thing now…and that’s not Joey Styles, I’m afraid. It’s a true, extreme hardcore diva.”

“What’s wrong with Torrie and Stacy?” Mike asked. “I’ll tell you what. I wouldn’t mind being the meat in a blonde sandwich, if you get what I mean.”

Rob frowned. “Look, I’m sure they’re nice girls, but do you think either of them even know how to spell ‘extreme’?”

“I don’t think Mike does,” Justin grinned.

“Hey, I heard that, fag.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Lance went on. “We don’t have a single diva we can really classify as being ECW. Both of those ladies are WCW at heart.”

“Simple,” Mike shrugged. “Call Dawn Marie.”

The other three let out exasperated sighs.

“Weren’t you listening, Mike?” Rob asked him. “Lance said they haven’t spoken in a year.”

“Fine,” Mike replied. “Get Francine.”

“And have Tommy and Raven fighting over her again?” Rob cried. “Nice, Mike.”

“Well, they can get their shit together. Francine’s hot. She ended up with you, right, Justin?”

“Kind of,” Justin replied vaguely. “She was my manager, but I think it ended even uglier than Lance and Dawn Marie. She thought she could play me, Corino and Jack Victory off each other. What she didn’t realize was that Victory was the only one who even wanted her.”

Mike slowly shook his head. “What the fuck was wrong with Corino? It’s Francine. I mean, you I get. You’re a fag. But Corino must be crazy.”

Justin actually stared at him in disbelief.

“It’s okay, Jus,” Rob called. “I get what you’re saying.”

“Good, nice to know someone does. So, you can forget about getting Francine, and Corino’s not gonna be coming over either.”

“What exactly happened with that?” Rob questioned curiously. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“No, it’s fine,” Justin told him. “X-Pac. X-Pac happened.”

“Just like that, huh?” Rob asked.

“Just like that, RVD,” Justin confirmed. “Steve…he didn’t even cry after that time Dusty Rhodes busted him open all over the place, but I’ll be damned if there weren’t tears in his eyes when I said I was leaving. I guess what goes around comes around.”

“Hey, fag,” Mike called suddenly. “You up for Travel Yahtzee?”

“No thanks,” Justin replied, sighing deeply.

“Don’t worry about it, Jus,” Rob said. “You’ll find someone else. You’re still bootylicious.”

Justin gave a little laugh. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, buddy.”

“So, do we have any suggestions?” Lance asked. “Any sensible suggestions?”

Mike, who’d been just about to suggest Francine again, shut his mouth.

“Why is it so important to you, Lance?” Rob inquired. “We could make the new ECW a boy’s club. Nothing wrong with that.”

“It bothers me,” Lance replied. “We need an extreme diva.”

“He’s a perfectionist,” Justin announced. “Always has been.”

“No shit he is,” Mike agreed. “He was only ever happy with Team Canada when there was an even number of members. Unless Major Gunns was around, then there had to be an odd number.”

“Even numbers have symmetry,” Lance stated. “And Major Gunns was our diva. That symmetry was only achieved with an even number of men.”

Rob frowned over at Lance. “Exactly how anal are you?”

“You have no idea,” Justin laughed.

“Would any of you like to listen to my idea?” Lance asked. “My question wasn’t rhetorical. I would like to get this solved.”

“Well, shoot, Lance,” Rob prompted. “Let’s hear it.”

“I suggest Angel Torres.”

“Who the fuck’s Angel Torres?” Mike asked.

“I second that question,” Rob added.

“Her?” Justin cried incredulously. “No way, man. I hate that bitch.”

“Who is she, Jus?” Rob asked.

“She’s a big time hootchie mama, that’s what she is. When I got to the WWF she was with Jeff Hardy, then she had Chris Benoit for a while, with a little bit of Kurt Angle, Test, Edge and Christian on the side. Finally, she played Benoit and Jericho off on each other like Francine used to do. Benoit walked and now she’s with Jericho…that’s if she’s not cheating on him too. Ask Rhyno about her. I think he’s had her.”

“Shit,” Mike mused. “She’s a slut. Where do I get a piece?”

“Her morals are not on trial, Justin,” Lance informed him. “I’m suggesting her as an extreme diva.”

“She sounds pretty extreme,” Mike guffawed.

Justin ignored him. “And I’m telling you, Lance, not to bother. For starters, she’s WWF all the way. And secondly, she’s a crafty ho, who clearly thinks she’s on a good thing with Jericho as her sugar daddy. Why would she leave that?”

“Wait a minute!” Mike cried. “Jericho? You’re talking about Jericho’s bitch? Well, shit, Lance. She’s a nice piece of ass, but she kicked the shit out of you.”

“Thank you for reminding me, Mike, but that’s precisely…”

“She hit you with a fuckin’ kendo stick!”

Lance took a deep breath. “Yes, Mike, I do remember. And that’s precisely what I’m saying. Do you think that our current divas even know what a kendo stick is?”

Mike smirked. “I bet they’d know if I got one and used it to…”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little naïve, Lance?” Rob asked him, cutting Mike off midstream.

“No, I don’t,” Lance replied, a little irkily.

“Come on, man,” Rob went on. “She obviously hates you. She hit you with a kendo stick!”

“She was looking for Mike,” Lance replied softly. “She wants the hardcore title. Which, if you ask me, only makes her more appropriate.”

“Actually, Lance, it makes her crazy,” Rob told him. “I know the girl you’re talking about now, and if she got in the ring with Mike, he’d destroy her.”

“If anyone else has any suggestions…” Lance started, trying not to show how upset he was with not being taken seriously. “You are welcome to voice them.”

“Okay, man,” Rob sighed. “Even if what Justin says is true, she obviously has some devotion to Jericho. How do you propose you cure her of that?”

“Well, that’s simple, Rob. Tonight I have a match with her beloved Chris Jericho. Once I reduce him to a festering pile of garbage on the mat, she’ll know that I, like the rest of the Alliance, have the power to improve her future. She will join us. She will be the next ECW diva.”

“I don’t care, so long as I get to fuck her,” Mike muttered.

“What’s so good about that bitch?” Justin asked.

“Didn’t you see her performance on Sunday Night Heat?” Lance prompted.

“Actually, no,” Justin replied bitterly. “I was busy hosting the show and getting royally fucked over by my now ex-boyfriend. But thanks for asking anyway.”

“Did anyone see it?” Lance asked.

“Sorry, man,” Rob shrugged. “I was in transit.”

“All I remember from that show is Palumbo and O’Haire beating Stasiak and Kanyon,” Mike told him. “If there was a bitch there, I would’ve noticed.”

“Unless you were passed out drunk in our hotel room,” Lance muttered under his breath, before raising his voice. “You need to see it. It was unbelievable. We need this girl, gentlemen. She will be our ECW diva. She’s absolutely perfect.”

* * * *

“I think you’re wrong,” Angel argued, giving Jericho a mock glare. “I think you are.”

“No way, baby,” Jericho replied emphatically. “You are, without a shadow of a doubt, far more so than me.”

“You are,” Angel told him.

“You are,” Jericho shot back.

“Jerky…”

“Baby…” Jericho echoed, matching her tone.

“Fine,” Angel sighed. “Let’s get someone to settle this. Lita!”

Lita came walking over with Matt in tow. “Yeah, Ange?”

“Settle a bet for us,” Angel smiled, eyes sparkling. “Have you heard that new Destiny’s Child song ‘Bootylicious’?”

“Yeah,” Lita replied uncertainly, one hand on her hip. “What about it?”

“Well, me and him can’t decide. Which of us do you think is more bootylicious?”

Lita’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You know, Li. Bootylicious. Which one? Me or Jerky?”

Lita’s surprise turned to a bewildered frown. “I swear, the two of you get stranger every time I see you. I’m not even going to try and understand this time.”

“You don’t have to understand,” Angel told her. “You just have to tell us who’s more bootylicious. Me or him?”

“Okay,” Lita sighed thoughtfully. “Well, even if I was into girls, you’d still be my cousin and that’s nasty. So I’d have to go with Chris.”

“Ha!” Angel cried triumphantly. “In your face, Jericho.”

“Hold up a minute, baby. We still need to ask junior here.”

“Me?” Matt asked, amused. “Oh no, I’m not getting involved in this.”

“Come on, junior,” Jericho coaxed him. “You’re allowed to have an opinion too. What’s it to be? Who’s more boo-tay-lish-us?”

“You mean bootyliciouser,” Matt deadpanned. “I’d have to say Angel.”

“Ouch, baby,” Jericho grinned. “The score is tied. Oh and look, here comes the one to settle it.”

“Hey everyone,” Jeff greeted them. “What?” he frowned, noticing they were all staring at him.

“No way, Jerky,” Angel argued. “If we ask Jeff, we’ve gotta ask Trish. It’s only fair.”

“Trish?” Lita shrieked and Matt gave an exasperated sigh.

“Here we go again.”

“What does Trish have to do with anything? And don’t you be smiling at me, Jeffrey.”

“Never,” Jeff told her, swallowing his smile. “Angel? Chris? You wanted to ask me something?”

“Fine,” Angel muttered flatly. “Jeff, who’s more bootylicious, me or Jerky?”

Jeff frowned at the two of them. “Is that a trick question?”

“No,” Angel sighed. “Just make your choice.”

“Oh,” Jeff nodded. “Well, in that case, there’s no doubt, is there? It’s gotta be Chris.”

“What?” cried Angel and Jericho.

“According to the fans,” Jeff explained. “All the girls always say what a great butt Chris has, but the guys? Well, there seems to be other parts of Angel they like more. So, therefore, Chris is more bootylicious.”

“Yes!” Angel cried triumphantly, leaping to her feet, grabbing Jeff by the shoulders and kissing him right on the lips. “You’re the best, Jeff. I love you!”

“Uh, thank you,” Jeff faltered, confused. “Or you’re welcome…or something. Um, Matt, Lita, you ready to go eat?”

“Sure thing, Jeff,” Matt nodded. “We’ll see you guys later.”

Angel, who was busy basking in the glory of her victory, didn’t hear them go. She didn’t even hear Matt’s confused voice.

“Jeff, that was a quick getaway. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t want her to know about…you know, my match. I mean, what if I win?”

“Okay, baby,” Jericho sighed. “So I win. I’m more bootylicious.”

“Damn straight you are,” Angel grinned, tucking into her meal again.

“You’re putting away more than usual today,” Jericho noticed.

Angel shrugged. “I’ve got Torrie Wilson. No sweat. In fact, I even made it easier for her. Well, that’s what she thinks. Actually, it’s just going to be even more humiliating for her.”

“How do you mean, baby?”

“I got it made into a bra and panties match. That chick is gonna have to run out of there in her underwear.”

“Rogue,” Jericho frowned. “You’ve never been in a bra and panties match. Besides, you’d kill her in straight one on one.”

“Yeah, probably,” Angel shrugged. “But that’d be boring. And anyway, how hard can it be? I mean, I’m good enough at taking men’s clothes off, and they’re not made from that stretchy fabric all the divas wear. This’ll be no problem. I’m even going to handicap myself.”

“How do you mean?”

“You’ll see, Jerky,” Angel told him, giving a vague smile. “So, anyway, you’ve got that geek Storm tonight?”

Jericho nodded. “My old dungeon buddy wants a piece of me.”

“Ah, you can’t help being better than him,” Angel sighed.

“I know,” Jericho played along. “Being this good is both a blessing and a curse.”

Angel grinned. “Even if we look past just how bootylicious you are, you only have to look at the hair. That is one freaky crew cut Storm’s sporting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jericho agreed. “He looks like Henry Rollins’s evil twin.”

“Who’s Henry Rollins?” Angel frowned.

“You know, baby,” Jericho told her. “Head of the Rollins band?”

“Oh,” Angel nodded, although she still had no idea. “Well, I think he looks like Forrest Gump.”

Jericho scoffed. “Nice. My mama always said, ‘Lance Storm’s a jackass’.”

“Run, Forrest, run!” Angel cried. “Run far away. You’re working for Stephanie McMahon. Run while you still can.”

That made Jericho turn serious. “Ah, yes. My old nemesis has returned. She just can’t get enough of me.”

“Understandable,” Angel smiled, trying to cheer him up.

“You know that big fat assclown Heyman approached me about going back?” Jericho asked suddenly.

“Where, ECW? But you were hardly there.”

“I know,” Jericho shrugged. “But they’re asking everyone who ever even held a sign in ECW arena. They’ve probably asked Lita, too.”

“Oh yeah. Miss Congeniality. A misnomer if ever I heard one,” Angel grinned. “So, what’d you say?”

“I told him that even though I know Stephanie loves being a woman on top, I couldn’t in good conscience work under a slut like her.”

Angel gave a little laugh. “And let me guess. He accused you of being disrespectful and walked off in a huff.”

“He sure did,” Jericho nodded. “Jackass.”

Angel just ate thoughtfully. “You know, I really wish I could be worried about this, but I’m not. I just know we’re going to make it through. The WWF has always won in the past. It’ll be fine.”

“You know, baby,” Jericho smiled. “That’s what I think too. So WCW and ECW have joined as an alliance against us. There’s a reason we ran them both out of business before. And we’ll bury them again. There’s really no doubt about it.”

* * * *

Angel paced out the ring. She was so sure of this one, she didn’t even ask Benoit for help. She just told herself she was going to do this and she was going to do it easily.

Torrie Wilson was making her way down the ramp, but she wasn’t alone. Joining her was her gal pal and constant companion, Stacy Keibler.

“No sweat,” Angel muttered coolly. “I’ll handle this handicap if I have to.”

The two blondes climbed into the ring, Stacy’s impossibly long legs easily scaling the ropes.

Angel formed a sick little smirk, eyeing off Torrie’s black pants and camel-colored top. Angel herself was wearing her blue ‘Shooter’ top and her usual leather pants.

“Piece of piss,” she muttered, and then she took her top off.

The crowd went wild, fueling Angel’s smirk.

“Okay, Torrie Wilson. Let’s get it on.”

The ref was explaining the rules, like they were so tough. The first woman to be stripped down to her bra and panties was declared the loser. Angel gave a little nod and held out her hands, giving Torrie a chance to lock up as Stacy climbed to the outside.

Torrie didn’t seem exactly sure of what to do, holding her arms extended like Angel’s only to be shoved easily to the canvas. Angel stood over her, beckoning her to stand and fight, but at that moment, Torrie sprang forward, knocking Angel down in a blatant trip. Apparently the ref was going to let it go as Torrie landed on top of Angel, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming them back into the canvas. Angel’s response was instinctive – she scrabbled around with her arms and legs, flipped Torrie over onto her back and locked on the crossface chicken wing. Torrie was trapped and absolutely helpless, tapping for all she was worth.

“This is a bra and panties match,” the ref called. “There’s no submission.”

But Angel knew that perfectly well. Just because she wasn’t allowed to win this way, it didn’t mean she couldn’t choke the bitch out. It’d sure as hell make it easier to strip her down.

“One…two…three…four! Break it or you’re gone.”

Angel instantly released the hold and leaped to her feet.

“What the hell?” she demanded.

“I told you already. No submission.”

“So? That means I can hold it in as long as I want until she either gets out of it or reaches the ropes.”

“Not on my watch,” referee Billy Silverman argued, pointing to his WCW ref’s shirt.

“That is bullshit!” Angel cried. “Where the hell did you learn how to ref?”

At that moment Torrie Wilson, thinking she was very crafty indeed, hit the low blow. Angel didn’t even flinch. She wanted an answer to her question.

But none was forthcoming. “I’m gonna give you to the count of three to get out of my face and then I’m DQ-ing your ass. One, two…”

“Fine,” Angel sighed, turning around, right into a slap across the face by Torrie. Angel simply gave her a look and snap suplexed her to the canvas. She scooped the blonde up and powerslammed her down again, before sending her for an Irish whip and catching her on the return with an armdrag. Torrie was down so Angel stood over her, grabbing her under the chin and wrenching her head up in the camel clutch.

“No submission!” the ref roared. “One…two...three…”

And, just like that, Angel released the hold, slipped her hands down Torrie’s body and tore off her top.
The crowd roared its approval as Torrie’s eyes widened in shock. She and Angel were both down to their bras now. Angel swung the top around her head, much to the crowd’s delight, then tucked it into her pants pocket like a flag. This one was all but over.

Angel Irish whipped Torrie again, this time catching her on the return with a huge clothesline that almost turned her inside out.

“Come on!” Angel screamed. “Come on!”

She dragged Torrie to her feet and Irish whipped her again, ducking on the return and standing into a huge back body drop that caused her opponent to crash heavily to the mat. Angel nodded clinically and hit the ropes, intending to go for a springboard corkscrew moonsault. But, just as she reached the edge, she fell back, her head cracking against the mat. That bitch Keibler had tripped her.

Torrie was on Angel in a flash, grabbing her pants by the waistband and trying to hoist them off. Angel simply gritted her teeth and kicked out, catching Torrie in the abdomen and sending her hurtling across the ring. Before she even knew what was happening, Angel had her by the back of the head, raced up the ropes in the corner and planted her with the tornado DDT.

Angel bounced to her feet, ignoring Torrie’s body. She could end this now, but first… She ran across the ring one way, got some momentum off the ropes and flew through the air in the suicide dive. She connected with Stacy and knocked the skinny bitch right on her ass.

Angel climbed back in the ring before the ref could even chastise her, grabbed Torrie and forced her into the corner and onto the top turnbuckle. Angel climbed quickly after her, hoisted her to her feet, hooked an arm around her head and bam! Superplex. Too bad this baby wasn’t pinfalls because Torrie was gone. Angel jumped to her feet with one thought in her mind. Finish her. And so she spread her arms, just like Benoit did for the headbutt. Only she wasn’t going for the headbutt. It was time for the Stairway To Heaven. Bam! Bottom rope moonsault. Bam! Second rope moonsault. Jump up, jump around, “Lucha libre!” Fly. Bam! Senton bomb. Angel instinctively made the cover before remembering. So she grabbed at Torrie’s pants and started to pull them down. Suddenly, the pants and Torrie both slipped from her grasp. Angel looked up to find Torrie safely on the ground, being helped up by Stacy Keibler. She didn’t even hesitate, circling the ring in a run up, leaping high, bouncing off the top rope and executing a somersault plancha. Torrie’s eyes widened in fear and she leaped out of the way, but Stacy wasn’t so lucky, crashing down beneath Angel, who reared back with her arms in the air, soaking up the cheers of the crowd. But Angel still wasn’t done, sliding back on her knees; slowly, deliberately grabbing the bottom of Stacy’s dress and ripping it up over her head. She swung it around wildly as the crowd roared and Stacy tried desperately to cover herself up.

“Leave her alone, you bitch!” squealed a voice, and Angel’s head cracked back against the ground. Torrie leaped on her, getting in a few little bitch-slaps before crack! Angel hit the knife-edge chop and Torrie fell backwards, allowing Angel to nip up. Crack! Another chop and Torrie staggered back, slamming against the ring. Angel glowered at her and beckoned her forward again.

Torrie frowned and ran, only to have Angel score the simple hiptoss onto the barrier. Torrie squealed with pain and Angel decided to close this out for real now, grabbing a handful of blonde hair and another of pants and hoisting her into the ring. Angel herself jumped up onto the apron and raised her arms to the crowd. Then she pushed down on he top rope, leaped up onto it and flew, catching Torrie Wilson, who was just beginning to stand. Angel flew through her legs and flipped her over into the Frankensteiner. She reached back, grabbed for Torrie’s pants while she had her pinned and yanked them right off. The bell rang. The match was over and the crowd was going crazy as a groggy and almost naked Torrie Wilson was released onto the relative safety of the ramp.

Angel was on her feet, still gripping Torrie’s pants as the ref hoisted her hand in the air. Like she had with the top and dress, Angel helicoptered the pants around her head, this time releasing them and sending them flying into the crowd, where one lucky fan got to keep a piece of history. She turned around and noticed that Stacy was in the ring, trying to cover both herself and Torrie with one black and white floral dress. Angel raced over and grabbed them both behind the head, bringing their eyes level with hers.

“I have nothing against either of you personally,” she growled. “But if you even think about fucking with me or the WWF again, I will end you. Kapiche?”

Both blondes nodded nervously.

“Good,” Angel replied coolly, releasing them with a shove. They turned to make their escape, but Angel ripped the dress from Stacy’s hands. “This belongs to me.”

And so Torrie Wilson and Stacy Keibler had no other recourse but to clutch at each other and run off in their underwear, while in the ring, Angel, still without a top herself, raised Torrie’s top and Stacy’s dress into the air, bathing in the cheers of the partisan WWF fans.

* * * *

She was still pumped when she stepped backstage and met up with Jericho.

“How cool was that? Someone should really, really teach those chicks how to wrestle. That was too easy.”

“You did make them redefine the word ordinary,” Jericho agreed. “And taking your own top off at the start was a little presumptuous of you. I loved it.”

Angel grinned. “I thought it’d be fun.”

“Where is your top, baby?” Jericho frowned. “All I see is those two scalps you took.”

“I left it with Finkel,” Angel realized. “Damn, that’s my ‘Shooter’ top. I love that one.”

“Never mind, baby. I’m headed out now. I’ll get it for you once I beat that jackass Storm.”

“You think you’re going down there without me?” Angel argued. “No way, Jerky. I’m your bodyguard.”

“Don’t bodyguards wear clothes? Bulletproof vests, maybe?” Jericho teased.

“Never mind,” Angel shrugged. “I’ll wear this.” She held up the top. “I doubt I could squeeze into Stacy’s dress, but me and Torrie are about the same size.” She pulled it on. “Not my color, but oh well, it’ll do.”

Jericho shook his head. “What are you going to do with that dress?”

“Why, you wanna wear it?” Angel grinned. “Nah, just kidding. I think I’ll just…” She got her fingers around the shoestring straps and broke them at one end, then used the straps to tie it around her neck like a cape. “There. I am now Bra and Panties Girl.”

“You’re a nut, that’s what you are,” Jericho told her.

“Don’t be mean,” Angel pouted. “So, you’re headed out there now, you said?”

“In just a moment,” Jericho replied. “Storm’s going first and, Lord help us, I heard he’s going for the microphone.”

Angel cringed. “I talked to him once, just for a minute. I think he induces narcolepsy.”

“No kidding, baby,” Jericho agreed. “You might be my bodyguard, but not even you can save me from the phenomenal boredom that is Lance ‘Thunder’ Storm.”

Angel scoffed. “That’s his name?”

Jericho nodded. “He’s the thunder that makes you wanna bury yourself six feet under. Shh, though, baby. I think I hear him.”

Sure enough, Lance Storm’s monotone issued from the speakers.

“If I can be serious for a minute. You WWF fans may be used to your cartoon characters, the pomp and circumstance, the pyro, the bells and whistles that go along with it. But let me assure you, I am no cartoon character. I need no bells and whistles…”

“Okay, baby, that’s all I can take,” Jericho muttered, putting an arm around her and leading her towards the stage. “Let’s go out there.”

Lance’s voice continued to echo throughout the arena. “And tonight I’ll prove it, when I destroy and dismantle your very own, your beloved…”

“J…J…J…!” screamed the music of Jericho’s countdown, cutting Lance off.

The explosion sounded and Angel stood herself in front of Jericho, arms extended like his, perfectly, so that in the shadow you couldn’t even tell she was there. Not until Jericho spun around, microphone in hand and Angel stepped up by his side, looking, with her cold unwavering expression, every inch the diva.
The crowd was going absolutely nuts, obviously sick of Lance Storm’s words of inspiration themselves. Jericho felt the energy and pulled Angel close as a symbol of uniting himself with the crowd and she slid her hand up his chest, still staring at Storm with eyebrows raised.

“You know, you’re not a cartoon character,” Jericho told him. “No, you’re more like a movie character. Your name really isn’t Lance Storm, is it? No, your name is really Forrest Gump. And Forrest, my mama always said, ‘Would you please shut the hell up?’”

“I can’t imagine why,” Angel muttered, causing Jericho to slap his hand down on her backside before he continued speaking to Lance.

“And after that little beat-down you and your buddies gave me last Monday night on Raw, I’m not gonna get mad. I am going to get…get…get…even.”

“His CD must be skipping,” Angel muttered as he released her and raced down into the ring. She was a little calmer with her approach, pacing carefully against her rapidly stiffening legs. She was in good shape, though, better than expected. Her aches and pains from running the gauntlet were all but gone and her bruises from Monday’s attack had all but faded. But then she hadn’t been attacked as harshly as Jericho had. They’d looked after each other carefully these past few days, anger and indignation at the ECW/WCW alliance growing with every passing minute. There were so many victims already – Jericho, Angel, Kane, plus the five representatives who had gone into the main event on Monday thinking they were teaming with WCW against the re-formed ECW. Faarooq and Bradshaw, Hardcore Holly, Billy Gunn and the Big Show. They’d pulled one over on the WWF and, as a result, a whole lot of people who had no personal feuds with WCW or ECW had been hurt. All that had changed. Angel was now as anti-Alliance as they were anti-WWF. Today, tomorrow, at Invasion. They would pay. They would all pay.

“Yeah! Go Jerky!” Angel cried as he whipped Storm into the corner, running in after him, but Storm leaped out onto the apron and stopped Jericho with a hard right. He jumped up and springboarded off the top rope, hitting Jericho with a flying forearm.

“Come on Jericho!” he cried, landing a few boots to the head. “Come on!” He grabbed handfuls of Jericho’s hair, slamming his own body on top of Jericho’s and rubbing his face against the canvas. “How does that feel, huh?”

“Get off him!” Angel cried. “Get off him, you piece of crap!”

Storm responded by dragging Jericho up by the hair and sending him for an Irish whip before ducking his head.

“Body drop!” Angel screamed and Jericho answered her by kicking Storm right in the head. He tried for a kick, which was caught by Storm, who then ducked the enziguri and swung Jericho over, right into the half Boston crab, the submission move he used to call the Maple Leaf. Jericho crawled, and crawled, and got the ropes.

“Yeah!” Angel cried. “That’s a shitty submission!”

Lance wasn’t impressed, sinking his boot into Jericho again as his fellow Canadian clutched the ropes and waited for the ref to give him some respite.

Finally Storm picked up Jericho and sent him for a neat vertical suplex before going up top. But just as he was finding his feet, Jericho ran into the corner and hit a huge top rope armdrag.

“Yes!” Angel cried, but now both men were down. She started tapping loudly on the mat near Jericho’s head while the ref started his ten count.

The crowd was right with Angel, chants of “Y2J! Y2J!” filling the air, louder and louder, until Jericho got up at six. Unfortunately, Storm was also up, hitting Jericho with a hard right hand. Jericho responded in kind and they traded punches for a few moments until Jericho whipped Storm into the ropes and dropped him with a shoulder block.

“Yes!” Angel shouted. “Finish him!”

Jericho kept going off the ropes, scoring a clothesline and then backing him up with a series of knife-edge chops. Another Irish whip and a huge back body drop into a bulldog.

“Yes!” Angel cried as Jericho leaped up. She knew what was next. Unfortunately, Lance did too, getting his knees up as Jericho flew in the lionsault and smashing them into his abdomen.

Now Lance had the upper hand, bouncing straight up and waiting for Jericho to stand before smashing him back down with a superkick. He made the cover.

“Kick out, Jerky, come on!”

“One! Two!”

And a kick out.

Storm was up quickly, grabbing Jericho for a standard suplex, but Jericho landed on his feet, then sent Storm for an Irish whip, only to have it reversed. Storm caught Jericho on the return and locked on the half Boston crab again. This time Jericho rolled right through, caught Storm’s legs and stepped over into the Walls of Jericho.

“Tap, bitch!” cried Angel.

And then Storm tapped and it was over. Angel leaped into the ring as Jericho threw Storm down and had his arm raised by the ref. She threw her arms around him and helped raise his other hand, then peered over at Storm. Lance Storm, the man who’d refused to take her to see Shane McMahon, back when she actually wanted to. Lance Storm, who’d thwarted her attempt to win the hardcore title on Monday night. Lance Storm, who’d hit the superkick to her head, contributing to that weird dream she now knew was drug-induced delirium. Well, actually that hadn’t been so bad. And Jerky was one hell of a kisser. Still, Lance Storm was an asshole. And then a sick smirk spread across her face.

She ran at him, jumping on his back and forcing him down again, just as he’d begun to pick himself up from the Walls. She slammed his arm between her legs and wrenched her locked hands back into his face. Crossface. See how the jackass liked that. And then he tapped and damn, it was beautiful. Angel released the hold, shoved his face with one hand and tore off her ‘cape’ with the other, still keeping the leg scissors on. She wrapped the dress around his neck and pulled back with both hands. Stacy’s dress crossface. Outstanding. And still Lance tapped.

‘I can see why you used to get off on this,’ she told Benoit in her mind.

And then referee Nick Patrick grabbed her by the waist and dragged her backwards. Angel struggled but reinforcements arrived and she was swamped. Still, it had been fun while it lasted. She climbed from the ring unaided, flapping the dress around like a flag and meeting up with Jericho on the ramp. Then, each with one arm around the other, they walked away.

* * * *

“You sure you don’t want me to go in there with you and do bodyguard type stuff?” Angel frowned skeptically. “I mean, who hates you? Kurt hates you, Austin hates you, McMahon hates you. What are you going to do if it turns ugly?”

“Baby, we’ve got Kurt Angle in there and you’re worried about the fact it might turn ugly?”

“Point taken,” Angel nodded. “But seriously, Jerky. If those three try anything, you’ve already wrestled tonight; you’d be no match for them. At least for me the sides would be a little more even. And anyway, I kicked Torrie Wilson’s butt tonight. That’s gotta put Vince in a good mood, at least with me.”

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” Jericho replied. “Taker and Kane are there and they like Kirk and Assclown about as much as I do. And anyway, we’re all WWF now. Old feuds don’t count.”

“If you say so,” Angel sighed, clenching and unclenching her fists.

Jericho gave her a little smile. She just wanted to be in on the action. But he knew very well that Austin wasn’t bringing Debra, while Taker’s wife Sara was still recovering from the Diamond Cutter she’d taken on Raw. He couldn’t very well take Rogue in there.

“I swear, baby. You just stay here and play with your dress.”

Angel couldn’t help smiling. “Fine. I will.”

“Good, you do that,” Jericho nodded. “I’ll see you later.”

Angel just watched him enter the office and close the door. She stood back against the wall, knowing that he was perfectly aware she wasn’t going back to the locker room. She was his bodyguard and dammit, she was guarding his body. Or the door. Whatever.

There were two people walking down the hall towards her. A few months ago, these two people would have struck fear and intense hatred deep inside her. But now all they inspired was indifference.

“Hi Perry, hi Terri,” she said coolly.

Terri had one arm linked with Perry’s, while in his free hand he carried a mop. Headcase freak.

“What do you want?” Terri asked skeptically.

“Nothing,” Angel shrugged. “Just saying hi.”

Perry focused his dopey blue eyes right on her and began to speak. “Angels choose wolverines to be their boyfriends. You’re welcome.”

Angel sighed. Alright, so she knew that Perry had caught her and Benoit getting it on in the closet, but it was still surprising to hear it, however jumbled, from his mouth.

“Right,” she muttered. “Hey Perry, is that your mop?”

Perry gave a slow nod and held up the mop. “This is Moppy. Moppy, this is Angel. She has a pet wolverine from Canada. Say hello, Moppy.”

Angel smiled at the mop. Well, she’d dealt with Head before; she could deal with this. “Pleased to meet you, Moppy.”

“She’s shy,” Perry explained. “She doesn’t talk to strangers because strangers are danger. You’re welcome.”

Angel gave a little nod. She couldn’t fault that logic. Terri was glaring at her with distrust, hatred, jealousy and disgust all intermingling on her face to make her one ugly whore. And then, out of the corner of her eye, Angel caught sight of Stacy’s dress draped over her shoulder and broke into a smile. That was one great idea.

“Hey Perry,” she called. “Moppy’s quite…well, petite, wouldn’t you say?”

“Moppy watches what she eats,” Perry nodded. “She has a figure like a hatstand.”

“I can see that,” Angel played along. “Well, it just so happens that I have a present for Moppy so we don’t have to be strangers anymore. Look, Moppy, a pretty new dress.” She held it out for Perry (and Moppy) to see.

“Moppy likes it!” Perry cried excitedly. “She thinks it will fit her just right.”

Terri shook her head in disbelief as Perry took the dress. “The mop doesn’t have any arms,” she muttered, like that was what was wrong with the scenario.

Angel heard her and gave a nod.

“Well, that’s a good thing, Terri,” she replied, maintaining her patronizing tone. “Because the straps are broken anyway.”

“Moppy doesn’t mind,” Perry announced. “She loves her new dress. Thank you, Angel.”

“You’re welcome,” Angel smiled.

Perry cocked his head. “You’re welcome,” he repeated.

Terri threw her hands to her sides as they walked away. “Perry, do you really think your mop should be taking presents from strangers? Strangers are danger, remember?”

“Angel’s not a stranger,” Perry argued incredulously. “Her collar for her wolverine is a halo. You’re welcome.”

Angel just had to shake her head. There was some kind of poetic justice in Terri having to deal with that nutcase 24/7.

“Angel Torres.”

Angel jumped and spun around. “Hi Mr. McMahon.”

“Nice job out there tonight,” Vince nodded. “Real nice job. In these most threatening of times, I’m looking for loyalty from my superstars. Loyalty and unity. I’m looking for them to stand tall. And I’ll tell you what, Angel. Tonight, you stood tall. I’m proud of you, Angel. And right now, I’m on my way to the ring, but listen. I can’t promise anything, but since you’ve proven your loyalty to the WWF tonight, if there’s anything you want, you come to me first and I will do my very best to make it happen. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Angel replied, eyes shining. “Thanks, Mr. McMahon.”

“That’s no problem, Angel,” Vince called over his shoulder as he walked on. “No problem whatsoever.”

“Hey Vince,” Angel cried, immediately regretting it. She’d been told more than once that it was ‘Mr. McMahon’ to her.

He turned straight back, but to her surprise he didn’t look pissed off. “Yes?”

“Your meeting,” she faltered. “With the guys for the brawl. Is it done?”

Vince gave a crisp nod. “Yes, it’s done. But I guess they have more to discuss. You’re welcome to join them, being the integral part of Team WWF that you are.”

Even though she knew she wouldn’t be going in just yet, Angel was hard pressed to hide her smile. “Thanks, Vince. I mean…Mr. McMahon.”

“Angel, that’s quite alright.” And this time he walked away for real.

* * * *

Angel sighed and leaned back against the wall. Exactly how long was this little inaugural brawl meeting going to take? She’d already, as well as Vince, seen Kane, Kurt Angle and Stone Cold leave the office and Kane had since returned. So, what was keeping the three of them? Were they having a tight little threesome in there or something? Ha, now that she’d like to see.

“Don’t be grotty, Angel,” she muttered to herself, turning away.

“There,” called a voice as she found herself looking into a pair of blue-green eyes. “I’ve been searching for you for the better part of the night.”

Angel’s eyebrows shot up as she drew back sharply. “Really? Well, maybe you should have spent it looking for an Altoid, ‘cause man, buddy, your breath!”

He broke into a scowl. “I suppose you think that’s funny.”

Angel grinned. “Kinda.”

“Well, if I can be serious for a minute. This won’t take but a moment of your time.”

“What’s that?” Angel asked coolly, while thinking, ‘Lance Storm wants to talk? This should be good.’

But Lance just frowned. “I would appreciate if you would show me some respect and not interrupt me.”

Angel sighed and looked impatiently at where her watch would be if she’d been wearing one, before she looked back at Lance expectantly. “Go for it, superfly.”

“Superfly?” Lance repeated, bewildered. “Angel Torres, I understand that you have been corrupted by the influence of my former tag team partner Chris Jericho and don’t get me wrong, no one appreciates offbeat shenanigans more than I do, but there is a time and place, Angel. What I’d like to talk about is your in-ring career. I think you’d agree that this should be treated very, very seriously.”

“Of course,” Angel nodded. “Nobody’s more serious than me, Lance.”

Lance seemed surprised. “You…know my name?”

“No shit I know it,” Angel nodded. “I mean, I did kick your ass earlier. Asskicking’s kind of like sex for me. I like to know the name of whoever I’m doing it to.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I suppose that is one point of view. But I guess what I am trying to ask is, are you happy with your current situation?”

Angel frowned. “Am I…?”

“You see, Angel. With the WWF you are never going to get what you rightfully deserve. You will be stuck fighting opponents nowhere near your standard, such as Torrie Wilson. They will bury you, Angel. Bury you in the lowcard. Not in ECW. In ECW we will give you the respect you deserve. Only in ECW, in the Alliance, will you be allowed to reach your full potential. All you have to do is join us. In ECW you will be welcome. All you have to do is say yes.”

“Are you kidding me?” Angel blurted.

“No, this is no joke. I am very, very serious. You belong in ECW. All you have to do is sign.”

Angel took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. You want me to voluntarily join an organization owned by Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley? Get serious, Storm.”

“I am serious. I am always serious…”

“No, Lance, my answer is no. WWF will stifle me, you say? I beg to differ. I’ve only been working here a few weeks, but already I’m in the position to get exactly what I want. You want me to prove it?”

Lance just frowned at her.

“Fine,” she nodded. “Let’s say I wanted to fight you on Sunday Night Heat, would you agree to it?”

Lance shook his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t fight women. That’s just not right.”

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. “And you’re telling me the WWF’s gonna make me fight people like Torrie? You say they’re gonna pen me in fighting women?”

“No, all I said was…”

“Shut up, I’m talking,” Angel snapped. “I let you speak, now you listen to me, buddy. I don’t know how much you know about me, but before tonight, I’d beaten ten people, nine of them men. And that’s just the official victories. My actual list of victories would blow your mind. So I won’t be pigeonholed into fighting women, like you’re obviously trying to do with this bogus invitation.”

Lance lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Angel. I was looking forward to working with you.”

“You were?” Angel asked skeptically, loosening her shoulders. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint you. I hope you’re free on Sunday night, Lance, because you will be fighting me. You’ll just have to pencil it into your datebook, whether you like it or not, because I now have a point to prove and believe me when I tell you I will be proving it. Nice talking to you, Lance, but this conversation is over.”

But…” Lance started, but Angel cut him right off with an emphatic, “O-ver.”

Lance scowled at her, then turned away and left.

“Oh, and Lance?” Angel called after him. “I’d really look into that Altoid if I were you. Yikes.”

Lance stopped and turned back. “You want to fight me, Angel? I’ll fight you. If only so you can see just how serious we in ECW are. You’ll see that the Alliance is a force to be reckoned with, and if you don’t join us now, there will be no WWF to support.”

“Can’t wait,” Angel gloated, raising her hand. “Bye-bye, Lancey.”

Lance angrily puffed up his chest and stomped away.

“Jackass,” Angel smirked, turning back towards the door.

“You weren’t talking about me, were you?” called another voice. Kurt Angle.

She only just managed to restrain herself before muttering, “Not this time.”

“No, Kurt,” she said out loud. “I was talking about Lance Storm.”

“Oh,” Kurt replied, giving a little nod. “That guy? What a dork! I’ll see you around, Angel.” He reached out to open the office door.

“Wait, Kurt,” Angel called. “Are you guys almost done in there?”

“Well, gee, Angel. I’m not sure. Maybe you should come on in and see for yourself.”

Angel gave him a skeptical smile. Last time she’d followed Kurt Angle into a room she’d ended up almost dead. But still, Jerky was in there and if Angel was in trouble, so was he. She was his bodyguard. She had to protect him.

“Okay, Kurt,” she nodded coolly. “I’ll go in.”

She walked in to where Jericho, Kane and the Undertaker were standing around talking strategy.

“Everything okay, Jerky?” Angel asked, stepping up to him.

“Everything’s fine, baby,” Jericho nodded. “You been staying out of trouble?”

“Sure,” Angel smiled. “I challenged Lance Storm to a match on Heat. Should be good.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jericho frowned. “That guy’s pretty good. I mean, my first pro match was against him and we battled to a draw. That’s gotta tell you something.”

Angel shrugged. “Hey, you beat him tonight, I’ll beat him Sunday. No sweat.”

“If you say so, Rogue,” Jericho muttered, turning back to the Undertaker, who was giving him an impatient glare.

“Are we done with happy time now?”

“Easy there, junior,” Jericho replied. “Rogue here was just keeping me updated. She’s WWF too.”

“So’s Debra and she was never here,” Undertaker pointed out. “We said no women. Now, what’s she? A drag queen?”

Angel sighed and cut Jericho off just as he was about to speak on her behalf. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go. I just wanted to check in and see that everything was okay. See ya soon.” She patted Jericho’s arm and headed for the door, hoping she hadn’t caused any trouble for him with the Undertaker.

“Hold on a minute there, girl,” Taker stopped her, dead in her tracks. “You got the balls to come walking in here, the least I can do is look you in the eye when I’m talking to you. And since Austin and McMahon ain’t here no more, you’ve at least got the balls they got. And while that ain’t sayin’ much, it means you can stay. Now, what I was waiting to say, now this Nancy boy’s showed up again,” he pointed out Angle. “Is this. I don’t give a crap who you are or where you’re from; if you’re on my side, well, hell, that’s good enough for me. Now, me and Golden Boy here got ourselves a tag team match tonight with DDP and Shane McMahon. Now, listen. I’m going out there and I’m going to beat the living hell out of DDP.” He turned to Kurt. “You think you can keep your head out of your ass long enough for us to get that done?”

Kurt gave a startled frown. “Yeah.”

“Alright, shut up,” Taker replied, looking over at Kane, Jericho and Angel. “Listen, you know they’re gonna come, alright? Just keep an eye on the backstage…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a second,” Kurt cut in. “Hold on a second. Vince and Stone Cold are gone. And when they’re gone, I’m the leader of this team. I should be captain.”

“Captain assclown," Jericho muttered.

Kurt ignored him. “Now, listen. Kane, Jericho, Angel. Keep an eye out for any sign of WCW or E…C…” He almost froze as he caught sight of Undertaker’s intense expression. “E…alright, you can be the leader…for tonight. I’ll see you out there.” He walked away before Taker could open his beatings account with a real Olympic Hero.

“Nice chin strap,” Jericho called after him, commenting on the bandage on his chin.

“Yeah, Kurt, love the Band-Aid kid look,” Angel added.

Undertaker let out a resigned sigh. “You guys keep an eye out back.”

“You got it, Take,” Jericho told him as Kane and Angel nodded, letting the Deadman follow Kurt from the room.

“Well, baby,” Jericho started, turning to her with a serious expression. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. Tonight you’re not just my bodyguard. You’re the bodyguard of the entire WWF.”

Angel gave a confident little nod. “Good thing I’m so bootylicious, huh?”

Jericho laughed, breaking the tension. “Yeah, baby, you certainly are bootylicious. Come on, Kane. Let’s all three go wait for the inevitable.”

Kane gave a little nod and they set off.

* * * *

As soon as they heard squeals from the crowd, they knew.

“Who is it?” Jericho frowned. “Raisin and…”

“Credible, Stasiak,” Angel put in. “Who’s the fourth? Should we head out there?”

“It’s Kanyon,” Jericho replied, his tone grave. “And I vote yes.”

“Wait,” Kane stopped them. “Look.”

Sure enough, on the monitor, Taker and Kurt had disposed of the intruders. But just then…

“Kidman!” Angel cried. “Dreamer! Tazz! Morrus!”

“Wait,” Kane said again.

Taker cleared the ring, but the Alliance managed to trap Kurt on the outside, gang-bashing him wildly. Taker didn’t notice. He was watching DDP. Then he ran into the ropes for some momentum and propelled himself out of the ring and onto the back, knocking all of them down. He and Kurt fought furiously, fought bravely, but there were just too many.

“Okay,” boomed Kane. “Let’s go.”

Angel and Jericho didn’t need any other encouragement, sprinting off down the ramp in front of the Big Red Machine. Angel scooped her sticks out and slammed them across the back of Stasiak’s knees, knocking him down. She rocketed into Raven’s arm, slapping him wildly. She hit Tazz, Justin Credible, Kanyon, striking quickly, always with an eye out in case she needed to duck. She armdragged Billy Kidman right over the barrier, then leaped and hit the hurricanrana on a startled Tommy Dreamer. Somewhere in the mess she’d lost her sticks, but she didn’t care. She was fighting for Jericho, for Kane and Taker, for the entire WWF. But most of all, she was fighting for her life. And then Bubba Ray Dudley grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her down. She’d never even seen him coming. She tried to get up, tried to fight back, but Chuck Palumbo walked over her like she was no more than a doormat. Tears sprang to her eyes as boots hit her side, her ribs. And then they were rolling her into the ring. She slid to her side and watched helplessly, being held back by Chavo Guerrero and Mark Jindrak as the Dudleyz hit the 3D on Kurt Angle, and Lance Storm made a superkick on Jericho.

“Let me go, you fucks!” she squealed, trying to race forward. She suddenly realized Chavo had her and started swearing at him in Spanish.

He just laughed and gripped her tighter before replying in the same language. “I’m glad your mother can’t hear you talking like that.”

“Hey Chavo,” Jindrak called. “It’s time.”

They gave Angel a little shove forward, right into the big bodies of Sean O’Haire and Chuck Palumbo. Great. What were they going to do to her? By all rights she should be passed out by now, but her instincts were telling her to fight, to fight. And then she saw Gregory Helms, but just for a moment. Before she knew it, he had her in the backslide, then dropped her on her head.

“Vertebreaker!” she screamed.

And then, luckily, everything went black. She never even saw Rhyno hit the gore on Kane or DDP with the Diamond Cutter on Undertaker. All she was aware of was the blinding, intense pain. And she cried. Loudly, openly. Poor, poor Benoit. If this was anything like what he’d been feeling with his broken neck…poor, poor Benoit. She should have helped him, should have protected him when she knew he was sometimes having trouble feeling his hand. He never talked about it but she’d noticed – hard not to notice him flicking it out all the time. Poor Benoit. If only she could have warned him, could have told him. She was feeling his pain and it was agony. Intense, blinding, mind-numbing agony. For a moment she knew what it was like to be him. And in that instant she hated it, and loved him all the more.

*lyrics from "Bootylicious" by Destiny's Child, used without permission