A/N: Hey guys! It's Mikaela! I know I've but out for awhile, but I'll be back soon, I promise! Okay, so there's a challenge attached to this oneshot. I purposely left out the name of the wrestler whose point of view this from. The first person to guess who he is correctly wins a oneshot from me with a pairing of his/her choice. So leave a guess in your review, and good luck! :)
Just a Chance
Jobber. Loser. Nobody. These were just a few of the many names he'd been labeled with. The complete indifference in his coworkers' eyes as they called him these things was enough to drive a sane man mad. And that was what he was, right? A sane man.
But perhaps not, he thought to himself as he sat alone at a corner table in Catering. After all, the rage and hatred he felt bubbling up inside of him on a daily basis couldn't be normal. No one would ever be able to live with such intense emotions for as long as he had without losing some part of their sanity.
He pondered this as he watched various Superstars and Divas flood into the room, looking to grab a bite to eat or catch up with each other. It was almost a high school-esque scene, with different tables belonging to different groups. Tag teams tended to sit together at the edge of the room, along with the low-carders. Closer to the center of the room were the mid-carders and Divas. And finally there were the main-eventers, the biggest stars in the company. They sat at the table in the middle of everything, the center of attention as always. They were few, but their presence and egos managed to fill the empty space around them.
He drew the hand that rested on the table's scuffed surface into a fist. He hated them. They were exactly like him, and yet they had been chosen to be stars while he had been passed over, kicked into jobbing limbo and left there to rot. There was nothing special about them. So one had a mass following of five-year-old children. Big deal. Another had a cool accent and hair so bright it could rival the sun. Whatever. And yet another was a sarcastic smart-ass who could handle a microphone. He could too, given the chance. But that was just it, wasn't it? He was never given a chance.
The clamor of the room seemed to press in on him, suffocating him. It seemed like everyone was laughing at him, mocking his foolishness, his willingness to believe that he could make it in this place.
His blood began to boil. He would show them. They'd all pay.
His hand slipped into his coat pocket, his fingers carressing the smooth grip and metal barrel of vengeance.
It would almost be a shame to kill them all, but they'd forced his hand. He had to get his point across.
If only they'd just given him a chance.