DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE NAMES USED IN THIS STORY. THEY ARE PURELY OWNED BY THE WWE. I ONLY OWN THE PLOT. ENJOY!
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PROLOGUE
In the entirety of the WWE Universe, there is one man known to be harboring the worst kind of luck that rivals bad luck itself. And that man is Mark Callaway. Or as the followers of the show have dubbed him – The Undertaker. Already past forty five, most wrestlers with such a prestigious legacy as Mark's would either retire early or be living very comfortable lives that could last them many more generations. Mark, unfortunately, was not famous for being a miser. He gave away money as if it was rain. It was a habit he developed at some point -the logical term being gambling. Mark Callaway was a heavy gambler. And he wasn't any good at it.
After losing close to fifty thousand dollars, Mark decided to call it quits for the night. //Damn. Luck really hates me.// He pulled out a empty pack of mints and let out a low growl. //And I'm hungry too. Maybe I should have bought some food with that money.// He scratched the back of his neck in thought as he walked down the dark, lonely sidewalks. It was a Saturday to boot, which meant no friends to bunk with. He had a hotel room, but he hadn't been in it for over a week, and even now was beginning to question that. //Come to think of it I don't even know where my hotel is.// Automatically he reached into his right back pocket only to get a handful of nothing. //Damn it where's my phone?// After doing a pseudo three-sixty, Mark sighed and continued on his way. With his luck, he was heavily certain that his phone was either stolen or gambled – the latter sounding a bit more correct.
Tired, frustrated, and hungry, Mark walked into a nearby night club. It was still open for business. //Finally something good happened.// His thoughts had not even fully matured as no sooner was his foot through the door that he realized exactly what type of club he had walked into. In one simple description: Men were everywhere. The only thing that resembled a female was a poster sized drink ad that hung on the wall behind the bar area. The sight did not completely shock Mark, however he wasn't expecting it and it showed clearly on his face. His brother Glenn often told him of these kinds of places, but he had never stepped foot inside one before tonight. An outcast feeling washed over him as he tried to avoid the on lookers as they stared at him, questioning his obvious I-don't-belong-here-aura. Mark simply closed his dark green eyes, took a deep breath and then walked over to the bar once his eye lids lifted. He sat down and stared at the dance floor a few meters ahead.
"What'll it be?"
Mark's eyes did not leave the crowd of dancing people //They look like a bunch of groupies on a high.// The sound of a throat clearing and glass hitting wood, Mark turned to face the bar tender.
In that instant, both men dropped jaws at each other. Mark all but flew out of his seat in shock. The man was clad in purple suspenders attached to skin tight black pants. He was topless. His normally wild black locks were slicked back in true Elvis fashion. The Pepsi tattoo gave the man away.
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