SING ALONG WITH 3-COUNT

RAW IS WAR, JULY 16TH, 2001

“Mmm, God, Jerky. That feels good,” Angel breathed as his hands worked her back and behind her neck.

“You’re not the only one who gives good massage, you know,” he replied.

“Amen to that,” Angel sighed happily.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Damn,” Angel grumbled, jumping off the bed with some difficulty. “I’ll get it, I guess.”

Jericho didn’t even bother arguing, despite the fact that today Angel was all dolled up in a bandage holding her insides together. Lance Storm’s constant assaults had left her with bruised ribs and she was lucky that was all. The doctor had advised her to take tonight off, but she had her heart set on beating Jeff Hardy for the hardcore title, so nothing was going to stop her. She’d been proving that point to him all morning – hence answering the door when he was perfectly capable of doing it.

“Matt!” she cried, startled.

“Hi Angel,” Matt nodded. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she replied, frowning. “Matt, is something wrong? Is Lita okay?”

“Lita’s fine,” he assured her. “In fact, she doesn’t even know I’m down here. Listen, can I come in?”

“Sure,” Angel nodded, stepping back to let him pass.

“Hi Chris,” Matt called out.

“Hey junior,” Jericho replied, stepping across the room and heading straight for Angel’s guitar.

“Don’t even think about it, Jerky,” Angel scolded him and he drew back, a sheepish expression on his face. “Like we didn’t get enough bad guitar playing with Kurt and Austin on SmackDown.”

“Fine,” Jericho sulked, but still scooped up the guitar. “I’ll play in the bathroom.”

“You can play with whatever you want in the bathroom, just as long as I don’t hear you,” Angel told him.

He gave her a sarcastic smirk and walked away.

Angel rolled her eyes and turned to Matt. “I swear, he’s such a child. So, Matt, what’s going on? I mean, if Lita’s okay, the only reason you could possibly be here is to try and talk me out of fighting your brother tonight.”

“No, Angel, that’s not it at all,” Matt insisted.

“Well, I’m sorry Matt, but that’s not going to hap…you said what?”

“Hey,” Matt shrugged. “I know how much you want the hardcore title again. I told Jeff he was a damned fool for even challenging for it in the first place. I don’t know what he was thinking. He probably thought he could impress you if he got that title. But anyway, like I said. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, okay,” Angel said thoughtfully. “Why not?”

“Why not what?” Matt asked, an amused expression on his face.

“I’m fighting your brother in a hardcore title match tonight,” Angel explained. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Well, I’d rather the two of you didn’t fight,” Matt replied. “But I’ve fought Jeff a few times myself, and he’s blood, you know? We’re wrestlers, Angel. We fight, it’s what we do. And like I said, Jeff had to know you’d want a shot at that title. So no, I’m not going to talk you out of it.”

“Huh,” Angel mused, sinking down onto the bed next to him. “Wow.”

Matt smiled and patted her knee. “Wow, huh?”

Angel grinned. “You’re a pretty cool guy, Matt Hardy.”

“Yeah,” Matt sighed, leaning back. “I know. So listen, are we gonna sit here all day talking about my kid brother or do you want to find out why I’m really here?”

Angel turned and looked down at him. “Okay, you’ve got me intrigued. What is it?”

“I’m here about Shane Helms,” Matt told her. “Or what’s he calling himself now? Gregory?”

“What about him?” Angel spat acidly.

“Look, Angel, I’ve been friends with the guy a long time – more than ten years…”

“That’s nice, Matt,” Angel interrupted. “But I don’t…”

“Come on, Angel,” Matt cut her off in kind. “Quit jumping to conclusions. I was going to tell you I’m on your side. What he did to you was not cool. I never thought I’d see the day when my best friend would hit a woman across the back with a chair for no real reason I could see.”

“Well, I did cost him the cruiserweight title,” Angel smirked.

“Don’t matter,” Matt waved it off. “He already got you back with that Vertebreaker on SmackDown. He should have let that be enough. You were going to beat Lance Storm. He really shouldn’t have screwed with that.”

Angel nodded. “I appreciate your support, but trust me. This thing with me and Helms isn’t over. He doesn’t seem to realize it’s not a good idea to piss me off.”

“Hey,” Matt grinned. “You’re related to Lita. I could have told him that. But I thought maybe you’d need some cheering up and I figured I could help you out with that. Here, I brought you a present.” He reached into his jacket and pulled something out.

Angel suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. “You’re wearing a jacket in the middle of summer?”

“Hey,” Matt smiled. “I like this jacket. So, here. Try this on for size.” He handed her a CD. No cover, just the CD itself.

Angel took it gingerly and frowned as she hunted around for Jericho’s little CD player. She found it and put the CD in, lowering the volume from Jericho’s preferred level. Her frown only deepened as the music blared out.

‘Ooh, baby! Oh yeah! Ooh, girl!’

“Is this the Backstreet Boys?” she asked skeptically.

“No,” Matt laughed. “Keep listening.”

‘I knew the very first time I looked at you,
I had a feeling deep inside.
And I knew in my heart I wanted you.’

“Oh, God,” Angel breathed, grimacing and clutching her stomach. “I’ve got a feeling deep inside too. It’s called nausea. What is this shit, Matt? Is it N’Sync?”

“Guess again,” Matt grinned. “Listen real close, Angel.”

‘I can’t get you out of my heart.
I knew we were in trouble right from the start.
We should of played it smart.
Now I can’t get you out of my heart.’

“Okay. That’s enough. I can’t take it anymore.” She leaped over to switch it off before turning back to Matt. “You’re just going to have to tell me.”

Keeping a straight face, Matt handed her the CD case.

“Oh my God,” Angel murmured, examining it. “That’s…that’s Gregory!”

“That’s right,” Matt grinned. “Pretty funny, huh?”

“It’s terrible!” Angel cried. “Oh my God. Where did you get this?”

“When it came out he told us all to buy it,” Matt explained. “Jeff’s got one too. And even worse, we had to pretend to like it. Like, ‘yeah, Shane. You, Shan and Ev sound great. That’s the best damn boyband song I’ve ever heard.’ But Shane…he had even more stock in it than the other two. He co-wrote the thing.”

“Are you serious?” Angel cringed. “I wouldn’t be admitting that.”

“Yeah, I know, but Shane was pretty damn proud of it,” Matt said thoughtfully. “But anyway, you can hold onto this. I sure don’t need it anymore.”

“What, it eats into your real Backstreet Boys collection?” Angel joked.

“Exactly,” Matt smiled. “But seriously, I thought that whenever you’re feeling pissed with Shane, y’all can give it a spin and feel better about yourself because you’ve never put out a piece of music quite this bad.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Angel laughed. “This is great. Or chronically terrible. I can’t decide.”

Matt grinned. “Hey, that’s okay. Look, I better go. I’m supposed to meet Lita and Jeff for lunch. Good luck in that match tonight, okay?”

“Thanks,” Angel said again, leading him to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

Matt gave her one last nod and headed off. Angel shut the door after him and stepped back into the room, tapping the CD case against her hand. ‘I Can’t Get You Out Of My Heart’ by 3-Count. Incredible. And the weird part was that it was just as bad as Billy Kidman had said it was.

She approached the CD player again and cranked the volume, listening to the song roar from the speakers.

‘Ooh baby! Oh yeah! Ooh girl!’

She had to laugh, just imagining Helms and his boys sincerely singing this, and making all the little ring rats who didn’t know any better swoon at them and squeal in ridiculously high-pitched voices.

“I love you, Sugar Shane!”

“Evan! Marry me!”

“Omigod! Shannon Moore is sooo hot!”

“Baby, what in the hell are you listening to?”

Angel turned towards the bathroom. Jericho was standing in the doorway, pulling a face as though he’d just bitten into a rotten orange.

“Matt gave it to me,” Angel replied coolly. “It’s pretty good, huh?”

“Good,” Jericho repeated. “Is something it most definitely is not. Is this the Backstreet Boys or something?”

“No,” Angel laughed, as a member of 3-Count who really couldn’t rap attempted to do just that. “Don’t you want to know who it is?”

“I don’t care who it is. What I want is it off my stereo.” He stepped over to switch it off.

“It’s Shane Helms,” Angel called out.

Jericho stopped and turned back, eyebrows raised. “It’s what?”

“Shane Helms and 3-Count,” Angel grinned. “Matt thought it’d cheer me up. He was right.”

Jericho started at her, open-mouthed. “Baby, do you realize what this is?”

“Uh, something tragic that shouldn’t have happened?” Angel guessed.

Jericho shook his head. “No, baby. It’s gold. Pure gold. So Helms screwed you last night. Well, Rogue, now you don’t get mad. Now you get even.”

“What do you mean?” Angel frowned.

Jericho formed a sick smirk. “Baby, do you happen to remember a certain video of one Vincent K. McMahon performing ‘Stand Back’?”

Angel gave a slow comprehending nod.

“Okay,” Jericho grinned. “I’m gonna get on the phone to Brian from the AV crew. You’re going to do this and you’re going to do it right. But first, I need you to do me a favor.”

“And that is?” Angel questioned.

“Gregory Helms!” Jericho cried. “Would you please shut the hell up!”

* * * *

“Whining Childish Wimps?” Angel suggested.

Jericho nodded. “That’s Shane McMahon, alright. How about ECW?”

“Hmm,” Angel thought about it. “Epidemic Cesspool of Warts?”

“Nice,” Jericho smirked. “Or, since they do have Diamond Dallas Page there, how about Enduring Cellulite and Wrinkles?”

“Jerky, you dolt,” Angel cried. “Page is with WCW.”

“ECW, WCW,” Jericho shrugged. “It’s all the Alliance, isn’t it? Besides, can you do any better?”

“Well, Stephanie’s in charge,” Angel pointed out. “So I guess maybe Enjoying Chains and Whips?”

Jericho laughed. “Oh great,” he muttered. “Look what we’ve got here.”

“Speak of the devil,” Angel commented.

“Oh, no way, baby,” Jericho argued. “Try the Bride of Frankenstein. Hello, Stephanie.”

Stephanie, who had been talking to Booker T, scrunched her face up into a scowl. “Hello, Jericho.”

Jericho’s smirk held true hatred. “I just wanted to come by and congratulate you on acquiring ECW. I guess now we finally know what those letters stand for…” Angel grinned, wondering which one he was going to use. But he broke out the big guns. “Every Customer Welcome.”

Stephanie gave a little humorless laugh. “Yeah, every customer except you.”

“Oh, he’s heartbroken,” Angel muttered, causing Stephanie to notice her at last.

“Buffy?” she asked contemptuously. “Is that you?”

“Surprise, bitch,” Angel scowled. “I work for your daddy now.”

“Really?” Stephanie asked. “Well, I guess that doesn’t surprise me. Daddy always did have an eye for things that are young and cheap.”

“Which explains why you were always known as ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’,” Angel shot back. “So, you’re hanging out with Shane now? That’s nice, it really is. It’s great to see siblings getting along.”

“Well,” Stephanie nodded. “I do love my brother.”

“I can see why,” Angel agreed. “He’s tall, dark and handsome; he’s well-spoken. He has good contacts. Why, I bet he makes the perfect pimp for you, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Jericho added as Stephanie’s mouth dropped around her ankles. “And I know you do consider yourself to be the queen of hardcore, but unfortunately, movies don’t quite count.”

“Yo!” Booker T cut in, getting right in Jericho’s face. “Back the hell up, man. You’re a real big man to talk to a lady like that.”

“That’s right,” Stephanie agreed but Jericho just laughed.

“You know,” Booker went on. “Right now I’ve got the mind to take you out in the middle of that WWF ring and whoopin’ your WWF ass. What you think about that?”

At that moment his back slammed into stacks of scaffolding as Angel glared at him furiously.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, buddy?” she growled. “You’re the one who better back off before I kick your WCW ass myself.”

Booker T was somewhat startled. “You know, Jericho. You better get your girlfriend out my face before I shows her just what being the WCW champion is all about.”

“Yeah, Buffy,” Stephanie agreed. “Down girl. Heel. Sit.”

Angel turned to her with a mocking expression. “Don’t worry, Steph. You’ll keep. But as for you?” she went on, rising to her full height and trying to stare Booker down. “You call yourself Booker? Well, maybe we should see just how good a ‘booker’ you really are. Y2J could beat you any night of the week, but if you want to challenge him tonight, maybe you should make it worth his while. Maybe you should put your WCW title on the line so you can show us all what being the WCW champion is all about.”
Booker turned to Stephanie, who was nodding rapidly.

“You got it,” he said at last.

“Great,” Angel smirked, stepping back next to Jericho. “His WWF ass thanks you.”

“Come on, baby,” Jericho laughed, putting an arm around her. He paused to call mockingly over his shoulder, “ECW…ECW.” Then the two of them walked away.

Booker frowned at Stephanie. “Sure you want to do it for the gold?”

“Oh yeah,” Stephanie nodded confidently. “You gotta put the title on the line. And just like at Invasion, you’re gonna kick Chris Jericho and the WWF’s ass!”

* * * *

“Well, that made me look manly,” Jericho commented.

“Don’t complain,” Angel scolded. “I got you a title shot.”

“Thank you, baby,” he replied sweetly. “You know my WWF ass is yours.”

“I know,” Angel nodded, linking her arm with his. “Hey, look. It’s Shane McMahon. I’ll catch up with you once I have some fun.”

“You don’t want me to bust in and steal your thunder?” Jericho questioned.

Angel turned to him and made kissy faces before stepping confidently up to Shane, who was leaning against the wall and speaking into his cell phone.

“Hello, Shane. I’d like to talk to you a minute if I might.”

Shane looked up from his phone and his dark eyes widened.

“Listen,” he said into the phone. “I’ll talk to you later. Something just came up. Yeah, bye.” He clicked the phone off and smiled at Angel. “Angel Torres. The WWF’s newest success story.”

“In the flesh,” Angel smiled back, spreading her arms.

“So, what can I do for you, Angel? I heard Lance Storm’s been in your ear about joining the Alliance.”

“Up my rear, more like it,” Angel smirked. “No, I just wanted to tell you something. I might not have the legs of Stacy Keibler or the dimples of Torrie Wilson, but the fans still love me and I’m more talented than both of those whores put together. You had your chance, Shane. All those moves I’m pulling off? I could be doing those for the Alliance. But you blew it. You didn’t want to take a chance on me, even though you knew what I could do. It’s like the fans say. Shane’s a pussy. Shane’s a pussy.”

“Now, wait a minute, Angel,” Shane protested.

“No, I’m done waiting for you,” Angel snapped. “I waited for you and waited for you and waited for you. I chased you on the phone. I chased you through arenas. I chased you through two different countries. But you didn’t give me so much as a simple meeting. So, if anyone’s to blame, it’s you. You missed the boat, Shane, just like you always have. Just like you always will. You will never be the man your father is. Because, although I might not like him all the time, he is a genius. But you, Shane? Well…Shane’s a pussy, Shane’s a pussy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go help prepare my friend Y2J for taking away your company’s most coveted prize. See you round, pussy. BOOYA!” she screamed, walking steadily away.

Shane blinked at her in disbelief. “Did she just say ‘booya’? That’s my line.” He pulled his cell phone out again and pressed a few buttons before holding it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s Shaneo. I just wanna clear something up. Do I or do I not hold the copyright on the word ‘booya’?”

* * * *

Angel slid her arm across Jericho’s back as he leaned forward, watching the referee take the belts from Booker T.

“This isn’t about the belts,” she said, initiating her pep talk.

“Damn straight it’s not,” Jericho muttered.

“It’s about hurting WCW, hurting the Alliance, like they hurt us last week.”

“That’s right,” Jericho nodded.

“They’re nothing without their top belt,” Angel went on. “And tonight it’s going to be yours.”

“Damn straight it is.”

Angel patted his back once more. “Do this, Jerky. Bring it home.”

“You got it, Rogue,” Jericho murmured as she stepped through the ropes and out of the ring. The timekeeper rang the bell.

“Let’s go, Jerky!” Angel applauded.

Booker T made the first shot with a straight martial arts kick, but Jericho ducked it and stepped out the way as Angel encouraged the crowd in their chants of “Booker T sucks!”

He paused a moment to regroup before a standard tie up, won by Booker with a hard elbow to the face. He bounced off the ropes and immediately scored with the shoulder block. He tried again, but Jericho rolled out the way, then leapfrogged him and scored the takedown. Bam! Armdrag. Bam! Armdrag and Booker escaped to the outside.

Suddenly, Angel grabbed both his legs and bam! His jaw cracked off the ring apron. He climbed back up quickly, just as Jericho leaped off the ropes in a springboard dropkick, knocking him down again. Shane McMahon, acting as a valet for his number one guy, quickly raced over to help Booker stand, but bam! Angel leaped and took Shane down with a huge spear as Jericho made the baseball slide and again floored Booker.

“Suck it, pussy!” Angel screamed, bouncing to her feet. “Suck it!”

Angel raced around the ring before Shane could even think about following her. By the time she made it around, Booker T was headed towards her. She leaped out the way as Jericho slammed him into the steel steps, then rolled him back into the ring.

“Come on, Jerky!” she cried as her friend went up top. “Finish him!”

Booker T was stumbling around in a daze as Jericho flew in the crossbody, right into the lateral press.

“One! Two!”

Booker kicked out.

“Come on, yeah!” Shane cried, unknowingly walking towards Angel.

She formed a sick little smirk. He may have been about 240, bigger than what she was used to dealing with, but if there was one thing Benoit, being not that big himself, had taught her, it was about leverage. She’d once seen a tape of Benoit snap suplexing 420 pounds of Rikishi. Surely she could handle Shane McMahon. He wasn’t watching where he was going and he walked straight into her. Bam! Over he went. Angel rubbed her hands together and walked away, tuning back in to the action again.

She was just in time to see Booker T hit a spinning martial arts kick and Jericho hit the canvas. Booker T grabbed him by the hair and backed him into the corner with a series of chops.

“Come on, Jerky! Fight back!”

He grabbed Booker by the shoulders and reversed their positions, then launched an attack of his own. He tried to whip Booker across the ring, but it was reversed and Jericho flew instead. He didn’t mind, catching Booker with a forearm and sending him back. Jericho ran at him and scored the takedown, grabbing Booker’s legs and starting to turn him over into the Walls of Jericho.

Just then, Shane McMahon jumped up onto the apron and leaned over the ropes, distracting Jericho. Angel raced after him, but the damage had been done as Jericho dropped the hold and ran at Shane, who quickly leaped out of the way. Jericho scowled and turned back to Booker, right into a superkick.
As Booker made the cover, Angel hoisted herself up top. She was not happy.

Shane McMahon busied himself arguing with the ref over whether or not that had only been two. Angel glared at him, set herself, and flew. Bam! Hurricanrana. That’d teach the piece of crap.

She turned back to the ring, just in time to see Booker hit the back kick and get another two count.
Booker grabbed Jericho’s hair and hauled him to his feet, hitting an elbow to the face and backing him up to the ropes with a few hard rights. He sent him for an Irish whip and ducked his head.

“Backdrop!” screamed Angel and Jericho’s boot rocketed into Booker’s head. He went for momentum off the ropes, but Booker grabbed him and slammed him down in a devastating modified powerbomb.

“No!” Angel squealed, slamming her hands on her head as Booker made another cover. “Kick out, get up, come on!”

“Yes!” she cried as he got his shoulder up. She started pounding her hand down on the canvas. “Come on, Jerky. Come on.”

And then Booker T got him in a headlock. Why people always went for the headlock with Jericho, Angel didn’t know. He always got out of it. Sure enough, Jericho got to his feet and forced Booker back, stopped only by a rake of the eyes. Booker had an Irish whip reversed, then came back into a flapjack which floored them both.

“Come on, Jerky!” Angel cried, pounding the canvas as the ref started the ten count. “Fire it up, come on, Y2J.”

By eight, both men were up. They exchanged blows until Jericho got a run going, tried to whip Booker T but had it reversed, right into a shoulder block. Next he scored a clothesline, ducked a right hand and chopped Booker into the corner. Booker reversed yet another whip, but Jericho met him with a boot to the throat. As Booker stumbled backwards, Jericho hauled himself up onto the second rope and nailed the missile dropkick. He made the cover and Angel counted along.

“One! Two!”

Suddenly the ref drew back, clutching his shoulder.

“Three!” Angel screamed, but to no avail. The ref had stopped the count.

“That was three, you son of a bitch!” Angel roared.

Jericho was equally pissed off, dumping Booker down and getting right in the ref’s face.

“Booker!” Angel screamed as the WCW champ ran at her friend. Jericho leaped just in time and Booker slammed into the ring post. Jericho hit him with the bulldog, then went for the lionsault, just as Booker rolled out the way.

“Feet!” Angel cried and luckily Jericho landed it, probably damaging his knees in the process. He went for the clothesline but missed as Booker sank a knee into his abdomen. Booker then went for the axe kick, only to have Jericho back out of it. Jericho scored another takedown and again turned Booker over into the Walls as Angel glared over at Shane McMahon, daring him to get involved. This time it seemed he knew better, because he stayed exactly where he was.

Booker raised his hand. He was going to tap. And then referee Nick Patrick drew back again, this time grabbing at his hamstring.

“What is this shit?” Angel cried as Booker T tapped frantically.

At that moment, Earl Hebner came sprinting down the ramp and leaped into the ring. He decked Patrick, then turned to Booker.

“How about it, Booker? Do you give up?”

Booker raised his arm and tap…tap…tap.

Earl turned and began his signal for the timekeeper to ring the bell, but Shane McMahon caught his arm and then punched him to the canvas.

Jericho heard the thud and dropped Booker, then raced over and pushed Shane off the apron. Just then, Angel dove into the ring, ran across and jumped. She bounced off the top rope and hit the somersault plancha, right on Shane McMahon. Straddling him, she punched him furiously, punctuating every shot with a little yell. “You…piece…of shit. Jericho…won it…and…you…know it…jackass!”

But suddenly, ding, ding, ding! Some music was playing, but it wasn’t Jericho’s. Angel grabbed Shane by the neck and savagely slammed his head down on the ground before leaping to her feet and giving him a sharp kick to the side. She climbed into the ring, where Jericho was watching in agony, his hands between his legs.

“What happened?” Angel asked, dropping to her knees by his side.

Jericho could barely speak, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Low blow…roll up.”

Angel patted him on the back, then ran at the ropes, glaring down at Booker T and Shane, who were making their way up the ramp.

“Next time,” Angel spat, shaking the top rope furiously. “Next time we’re taking your belts, you piece of shit.”

She ran back to Jericho’s side and helped him from the ring. He leaned heavily against her.

“Ice,” he groaned. “I need ice.”

“On your pee-pee?” Angel asked skeptically.

“You’re a girl,” he cringed. “You don’t understand.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Angel agreed, supporting him as they made their way up the hall.

“Hey Chris and Angel,” called a voice. “Nice work out there. Shame you couldn’t pull off the win, but hey, if you keep at it, there’s no telling what might happen next time.”

Jericho glowered painfully over at Kurt. “Thanks for the advice, assclown.”

“Hey, you’re welcome. Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Did you just call me…an assclown?”

“Kurt!” Angel cried, trying to distract him. “Aren’t you on your way to the ring?”

“That’s right, I am. I’m going to fight Raven. He challenged me to a match. Can you believe that? So I told him, sure, I’d beat him in any kind of match he wanted. And then he said ECW rules, so I said no, the ECW doesn’t rule. The WWF rules, pal. How do you like that?”

Angel raised her eyebrows. “Uh, Kurt. ECW rules…”

“No, Angel,” Kurt cut her off. “The WWF rules. Okay? The WWF rules. See you two later.” With that, he turned and headed towards the backstage area.

“Well, he’s trying, but he’s still a wiener,” Angel commented. “I was only going to tell him that ECW rules are the same as hardcore rules.”

“He’s a wiener, alright,” Jericho groaned. “But, speaking of wieners, can we please…”

“Shut the hell up?” Angel guessed.

“No. Go to the trainer.”

It was cruel, but Angel had to laugh. “Sure, Jerky. Let’s go get some help for little Y2J.”

* * * *

Angel walked calmly down the hallway, toting her gym bag full of hardcore ‘toys’. She’d left Jericho and his sensitive injury at the trainer’s room, kissed his cheek and headed off for her own match. The payoff was twofold. Teaching Jeff Hardy a lesson in respect and winning her hardcore title back. She wouldn’t go easy on him; not a chance.

“Oh, for God’s sake, get a room,” she muttered.

Up ahead, pressed tightly against the wall, Jeff and Trish were making out. Well, it was nice of Trish to forgive him so soon. She’d placed 100% of the blame on Torrie Wilson and had told Angel so herself. Angel didn’t see things that way. It takes two to liplock, and Jeff had definitely enjoyed himself. And she knew Jeff better than Trish did – she knew how he prided himself on being one of the nice guys. If he wanted to keep that title, Angel was going to have to drum it into him.

Jeff broke away from Trish.

“Angel!” he cried in surprise. “Is it time for our match?”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Jeff,” Angel replied silkily. “I intend making a speech, so you’ve got a few more minutes to slobber over Trish. And Trish, when the time does come for the match, I’d stay back here if I were you. Things between me and your boyfriend are about to get decidedly ugly.”

Trish pouted, worried. “I wish you two wouldn’t fight.”

“Okay,” Angel replied smoothly. “Jeff, will you lay down and give me your title? No, didn’t think so. See you out there, Hardy.” With that, she coolly continued on her way.

“I was about to say yes,” Jeff sighed, watching her go.

“She wants to fight you,” Trish replied sadly. “Don’t hurt her too badly, okay, Jeff? She doesn’t know any better. She thinks she’s as strong as a man, and she almost is, but only almost.”

“Of course I’m not gonna hurt her,” Jeff said incredulously. “She’s my Angel. But I can’t just lie down in the middle of the ring for her. I’d be laughed out of the place. I’d probably lose my job.”

“I understand,” Trish replied, clutching his hands nervously. “Just be careful. Both of you.”

“I’ll try, Trish. But about this plan. Do you really think its working?”

Trish gave a confident little smile. “Of course it’s working, Jeff. Didn’t you see her? She was real mad at seeing us together.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeff sighed. “But I got a question. Was she jealous of you or jealous of me?”

“Don’t be silly, Jeff,” Trish grinned. “All you have to worry about is not getting the two of you hurt.”

“Yeah,” Jeff sighed again. That alone was sure going to be tough.

* * * *

“Earlier tonight, I was talking to my friend Chris Jericho,” Angel started, slowly pacing out the ring. “And we were trying to figure out what the letters of ECW and WCW stand for. Well, you heard Y2J’s for ECW – Every Customer Welcome. But I had a couple, too, and if it’s okay with you good people of Providence, I’d like to share them with you.” The crowd roared at what Angel knew was cheap heat. But hey, it was good enough. “ECW. ECW. Easy Cheap Whores, maybe? Yeah, that’s Stephanie, all right. Or hey, if we’re talking about Lance Storm, how about Extremely Charismatic? Whatever! But, actually, you know what? I’m not here to talk about ECW. I’m here to talk about its evil twin WCW, or as I prefer to call it, World Class Wankers. You’re got people there who were long ago fired or passed over by the WWF. People like Shawn Stasiak in his pretty pink Speedos or Diamond Dallas Page, who just hasn’t been the same since his wife left him. Actually, that brings to mind another meaning for those WCW letters. That’s right. WCW. We Can’t Wrestle.”

The crowd roared its approval, giving her the strength to go on.

“And while I’m on the topic of people who can’t wrestle, how about my old friend who first introduced himself to me as the ubiquitous Evan Moore? Who’s that you say? Well, maybe you know him better as former cruiserweight champion, ‘Sugar’ Shane Helms. Oh wait, did I say Shane? I meant Gregory. Here’s a thought, Helms. PICK A NAME AND GO WITH IT! Yes, me and Helms are pretty close. So close that that skinny, longhaired, no talent piece of crap felt the need to interfere in my match last night on Sunday Night Heat. But he wasn’t even tough enough to do it face to face. He hit me with a steel chair when my back was turned. Oh yeah, buddy. Real tough. So tonight, Helms, I may be fighting Jeff Hardy for the hardcore title, but I still have a big place in my heart for you. In fact, come Invasion, I’m calling your ass out. But don’t worry. When I kick your ass, I’ll make it worth your while. Because I know you don’t understand basic wrestling principles like ‘settling the score’ or ‘may the best man win’. That’s why I’ll put it to you in the only language you and your fellow WCW losers understand. Money and gold. After I win the hardcore title tonight, I’ll put it on the line. I’ll give you the first title shot. But you can’t beat me, Helms. Because I’m a better wrestler than you are, although I must admit that you’re a man of many talents. Do the people of Providence want to hear the talented Mr. Helms? Trust me, you gotta hear this. Because on Sunday, Helms, if you’re game, I will hand your ass to you. But tonight, well, they say payback’s a bitch, and baby, so am I.” She smirked and turned towards the Titantron, where a hastily constructed video made by Jericho’s friends in the AV department began to play.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is time. Time to sing along with 3-Count!”

Angel put her hands on her hips to watch the video she hadn’t seen before. It was perfect – footage of swooning girls at an N’Sync concert, interspersed with Gregory Helms screwing up any number of spots, 3-Count singing and looking so serious, 3-Count fighting amongst themselves, ‘Sugar’ Shane holding up WCW’s hardcore belt, a surprisingly real-looking crowd chanting ‘3-Count sucks’, Gregory Helms kissing his cruiserweight title belt and finally, Angel’s screwjob that had cost him that title.

When it finished, Angel was standing there, shaking her head and wiping fake tears from her eyes.

“A tragic love story if ever I heard one. I hear the bond between jackass and belt is decidedly strong, but Gregory, honey? The Backstreet Boys called. They want their nauseating lyrics back. But hell, that’s all I can stand. Gregory, you, me, Invasion. That’s what I want. It’s your move, buddy, because right now, I have a title to win. So, people of Providence, please allow me to introduce my opponent this evening. From Cameron, North Carolina, weighing in at two hundred and seventeen truly diggable pounds, the soon to be ex hardcore champion, ladies, gentlemen and girls everywhere, give it up for Jeff Hardy! Cue Jeff’s music. Come on, Jeff. It’s time to play.”

Jeff gave her a bewildered frown as he made his way towards the ramp, not even performing his usual gyrating entrance or slapping the hands of the fans he passed. Was Angel mocking him or was she serious when she told the fans to give it up for him? She’d seemed pretty sarcastic, but the crowd, and in particular, the girls, were cheering him, so maybe she had been for real.

She was waiting for him as he dove into the ring. She was holding those fighting sticks of hers and eyeing him intently. It took him back to a conversation they’d shared, months and months ago, when she’d told him he wasn’t hardcore. Well, now, he wasn’t just hardcore, he was the hardcore champion. But she obviously thought she could take him, or she wouldn’t be standing there.

He took a deep breath and began to circle, arms extended. Angel immediately swatted at his hand with her stick, then spun him around and forced him into a corner, where she began crisscrossing both sticks up and down his body, so quick he was powerless to stop her. Still keeping a hold of her sticks, Angel whipped him into the other corner, then ran after him, leaped up, hooked her legs around his neck and bam! Hurricanrana takedown.

She stood over him, waiting for him to stand, then swatted him down again when he found his hands and knees. She whipped him into the ropes, intending to sink her knee into his abdomen, but he flew high and took her down in the crossbody. He made the cover, the ref counted one and bam! Angel’s sticks rocketed into his back. She quickly found her feet and picked him up by the hair, then slammed her stick across the back of his knees, knocking him down so hard his head cracked against the canvas and actually bounced up a little before coming to rest. Angel gave a cool little nod and climbed down from the ring, hunting under it for another weapon or two. She didn’t want the fans to get bored, after all.
First she pulled out a trashcan lid and set it aside before shoving a broom into the ring. Next came a trashcan. She was just lifting it up to throw over the ropes when bam! Jeff hit the baseball slide and the can slammed into Angel’s face, knocking her to the ground.

Jeff raced around the ring and leaped off the barrier, right into a hard shot with the trashcan lid by Angel.
Angel frowned down at him as she threw the lid away. Had she knocked him out? She hadn’t wanted that to happen. All she wanted was her title back. Title! This was falls count anywhere. She jumped down on Jeff in the cover.

“One! Two!”

Jeff got his shoulder up. Angel stood quickly, picking up the lid again. Jeff tried to sit up. Bam! She cracked it across his back and he was down again. The shooter in her was telling her to do it this way – wear his back down. He’d be hurting for a while, but at least she wouldn’t kill him. And so she got handfuls of the back of his head and threw him into the steel steps. His back clattered against them and he tumbled to the ground again, before Angel grabbed him and rolled him back into the ring. Angel climbed in after him, Irish whipped him and caught him on the return with a backbreaker across the knee.
As Jeff writhed on the canvas, Angel started towards the corner. She was going for the missile dropkick. But, just as she reached the top rope, Jeff raced in with all guns blazing, knocking her off balance. He quickly climbed up after her, hooked an arm around her neck and bam! Superplex.

Unfortunately, it hurt Jeff almost as much as it hurt Angel and both of them were laid out. In hardcore matches there are no count outs, so the ref just had to stand there and wait for them to get up.

Angel, as it turned out, was first to her feet. She stepped wearily over to Jeff and grabbed him by his pants, forcing him to his feet before she snapped him over her head. Before he could recover, she rolled him onto his stomach, trapped his arm in the leg scissors and locked on the crossface. She’d done it all so systematically, so methodically, like the shooter she’d almost forgotten how to be in her quest for survival and impressing people. Now she was going to do something all too rare. She was going to score a submission victory in a hardcore match. Jeff was close to tapping, she could feel it, could feel his Latissimus Dorsi, which must already be killing him, so close to tearing. Maybe it was already torn. She couldn’t resist having a little dig at him.

“You like that, Jeff, huh?” she hissed through teeth that were clenched with effort. “You like having your hand between my legs?”

And then she wrenched back even tighter, relaxed and wrenched back again, alternating bursts of pressure so Jeff couldn’t possibly know when or even how to escape her.

And then, crack! Something hard hit her across the head and she was out cold.

Moaning with pain, Jeff felt only the release of pressure and pulled himself to his hands and knees. He saw Angel, flat on her back, her eyes closed and picked himself up, stumbling unsteadily towards her. Then, at the last second, he changed course and raced over to the ropes, hurtling though the air in the crossbody. In less than a second, Gregory Helms was down.

Jeff picked up the discarded steel chair and slammed it down over his old friend’s stomach, then tossed it aside again. He grabbed Gregory by the hair, bouncing his head off the apron and then rolling him into the ring. That ought to hold him for a little while, long enough for Jeff to retrieve his own hardcore weapon of choice. The ladder. A dazed Gregory Helms tried to fight him off with the broom, but that was never going to work, as the steel of the ladder clipped his jaw and knocked him down again.

Jeff gave a clinical little nod. This was a hardcore match. He didn’t even have to pin Angel in order to win it and retain his title. He could get the duke on Gregory instead. And so, armed with the broom, he went up top, then leaped in the Matt Hardy style legdrop, cracking the broomstick down on Gregory’s knee. Then he bounced to his feet and glared down at Gregory.

“You hurt my Angel,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to let you get away with that, Shane.”

And so he stepped calmly over to the ladder, standing it up and then opening it. This was going to work out. He’d hit the Swanton on Gregory and get the three, thus retaining his title without having to injure Angel further in what really had already been an overly brutal match. Not only that, but he would have disposed of her attack and that, of course, made him her hero. Hadn’t she started following Chris Jericho around after he saved her life at Backlash? Well, now it was Jeff’s turn, and not a moment too soon. He suddenly realized he’d been standing there thinking for some time and really should get his backside up that ladder. And so he started to climb. He was nearly to the top. All he had to do was step over, give the crowd his customary Swanton signal, and jump.

But just then he felt strong arms around his waist. He tried to shift them, but found he couldn’t. There was heavy breathing in his ear and then he heard a voice that sent strange chills of pleasure all the way up his spine.

“Sorry, Jeff. You’re going down.”

And sure enough, he did. German suplex, fifteen feet off the top of the ladder. Angel squealed in pain, but somehow made the cover.

“One! Two!”

But Jeff miraculously kicked out. He couldn’t have much left, though. He’d be very lucky if that suplex hadn’t broken his back.

Angel climbed painfully to her feet. She knew what she had to do to close this out. She had to climb the Stairway. It wasn’t easy getting her run up for the first springboard moonsault, but finally she bounced back off the rope sand spun through the air. At that moment, Jeff rolled out the way and Angel slapped heavily against the canvas. She picked herself up as best she could, coming face to face with Jeff, who was going for the clothesline. She ducked it, got the waistlock back on and bam! One German. Bam! Two Germans. Bam! Three Germans and Angel was back on her feet. She was going for the Stairway again. It was like Olympic weightlifting. If all those lights failed to go on, you simply take a second attempt. Sure, you might be a little weaker, a little sorer, but if you pulled it off, you could still win the gold.

Bam! Bottom rope moonsault. Bam! Second rope moonsault. She sucked air into her lungs as she leaped up top and bounced around.

“Lucha libre!” she screamed and then, boom! A chair cracked across her back in an identical replay of last night and she fell forward onto the canvas.

Gregory Helms threw the chair away and leaped in after her. He grabbed he by the head and forced her to her feet, then cracked her down again in the Nightmare on Helms Street. Now she was out and out for real this time.

“You don’t pick on the song, Angel!” he screamed at her. “You’re just lucky Ev and Shan aren’t here to kick your butt, too.”

And with that, he gave a satisfied nod at where Jeff Hardy was beginning to move, and climbed out of the ring.

Jeff was stunned by what he saw. Angel was down again. It had to have been Helms, but where was he? Nowhere Jeff could see. Finally, he just gave a frustrated sigh and frowned back down at Angel again.

“Well, Angel. If you don’t kick his butt, maybe I’ll do it for you.”

But first of all he had to retain his hardcore belt. To do that, he had to pin someone and, since Shane wasn’t anywhere around, it was going to have to be Angel. Oh well, she was out anyway. Might as well give the fans their money’s worth. And so she went up top. He raised his finger guns to the sky and jumped in the Swanton, landing on Angel and hooking her legs.

“One! Two! Three!”

The sound of the ring bell and the ring announcer’s voice, as well as the sudden loss of weight as Jeff jumped off her, jolted Angel back into consciousness. She rubbed her eyes and made it to a sitting position, before noticing some movement on the ramp. Gregory Helms was doing an interpretative dance an pointing at her with a smug expression on his face, leaving no mistake about what had happened here. Last night he’d cost her a match against Lance Storm; tonight, he’d cost her the gold, the hardcore title, the belt she’d always cherished. Come Sunday, whether he liked it or not, he was going down.
And just then, Jeff had his arms under her armpits and was helping her stand. He turned her around and pulled her into a hug.

“I’ll give you a rematch, okay?”

“No,” she replied solemnly. “Give me a microphone.”

Jeff ran as best he could, bringing one back to her.

“Hey, Gregory!” she called out. “You blow in and out of this arena so fast you’re like a damn hurricane! Why don’t you stay awhile?”

Gregory stopped and turned to her, arching his eyebrows indignantly.

“Come on, Gregory,” Angel called. “Sing with me. I like to call this one ‘What I’m Going To Do With You On Sunday’. Get up on your feet, Gregory. Put your hands together. Sing along with 3-Count. Party on forever. Everybody 3-Count. One! Two! Three!” she screamed, pounding the mat with each number. The crowd joined with her enthusiastically for the second count. “One! Two! Three!”

*lyrics from “Can’t Get You Outta My Heart” and “Dance With 3-Count” by 3-Count, used without permission