The Great Creative Sabotage

Genre: Humor
Rating: T-13
Summary: Hired by an unknown employer, a fan and her assembled team of elite crackpots attempt to do what should have done long before, infiltrate the WWE Creative Team. PG-13 for humor and language.

Dsiclaimer: I own nothing used in this story but myself. All other fan authors own themselves. All superstars own themselves. WWE is owned by Vince McMahon. I consider myself fortunate in that I don't own or personally know any of the members of the Creative Team.

This is a sequel of sorts to 'The Great Diva Sabotage', which I finished some time last year. I think my only way to handle stuff I don't like with things I don't have the power to change may be to fictionally sabotage it. Well, it'll at least serve to take my mind of things, and hopefully amuse and entertain anybody else who reads it.

Date Uploaded: 07 March 2006

Chapter 01: The Pushy, Unwanted, Unknown, Would-Be Employer

It was in the dead of night when a shrill ring cut into the peace and quiet. Another followed, then another, and another. Outside, a restless dog had picked up the noise and began to howl.

There was a muffled groan and the messy heap of blankets on the queen-sized bed began to move. A hand emerged and groped around, knocking off the alarm clock on the end table in the process, before finally closing around the cordless receiver of the phone. It was flicked on and withdrawn into the nest of covers.

The person underneath cleared her throat and spoke groggily, "What," somehow making it more of a statement than a question.

"Azrael," a stiff, robotic voice responded. "I have a proposition for you."

The response was a long, drawn-out yawn. "Have you any idea what time it is, you tool? Go play your little phone prank on somebody else."

"This is no prank. Are you awake?"

"What kind of moronic question is that?" Azrael snapped, drowsiness slowly starting to be replaced with anger. "Would I be talking to you if I wasn't?"

"A simple 'yes' would suffice."

"Not when you happen to be the reason I'm awake in the first place." Azrael sat up, got caught under one of the blankets, spent a moment cursing and fumbling before managing to break her head free into the night air and get into a sitting position.

"Relax, Azrael. I didn't call for the sole purpose of irritating you in the middle of the night. In fact, to expound on my statement earlier, I would like to employ you."

"I work for no one," Azrael growled most unimpressively, considering she was trying to trace the number from her caller ID, ending up leaning out of bed too much and almost crashing face-first onto the floor.

"If you were wondering, I'm making this call from a phone booth, so even if you did track the number down, it would be next to impossible to find who used it."

"I could always put the phone down, you know."

"And yet you haven't." Somehow the robotic voice sounded triumphant.

"Do you WANT me to put the phone down?" Azrael snapped.

It was quiet for a moment as the two on either end tried to assess who was in control of the situation. Finally, with no firm winner in light, the mystery caller spoke again. "I assume this means you'll hear me out?"

"Fine," Azrael said, rubbing her eyes. "But if your reason for waking me up at this hour isn't up to scratch, I assure you I WILL find you. Or the phone goes down, whatever's easier."

"I see. Well, I'll begin then," the robotic voice cleared his or her throat. "I want you to take on the WWE creative team."

There was a quiet moment as Azrael processed this information. And then she answered, "Phone going down."

"No, wait, listen—"

But the receiver met the cradle with a resounding thud as Azrael brusquely hung up on him or her. She groaned, trying to get some semblance of order among the various covers and comforters on her bed. Almost as an afterthought, she reached back over and yanked the phone jack, disconnecting it. And then with a few more curses and grunts, she rolled over and mercifully resumed her sleep.

»»»

"'Take on the creative team'?" T'laren chortled as he put down his cup of tea. "Was that nut-job for real?"

"Honestly I don't know, but at three in the morning I didn't care," Azrael replied, draining the rest of her mocha latte.

It was eleven in the morning later that day and Starbucks had its regular flow of customers coming and going. Azrael, still grumpy from her interrupted sleep, had been jerked to her senses a few minutes ago when somebody had thumped on the window where she was sitting. Upon seeing that it was T'laren, she had invited him to join her and thus the two of them were seated, Azrael sipping coffee and T'laren tea, like so many pretentious young people before them.

"Could've been fun, though," T'laren said thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. "Pissing off people you don't like AND getting paid for it. I want a job like that."

"Well in the meantime doing it as a hobby isn't half-bad either," Azrael said, cracking a smile.

"Yeah, but the equipment doesn't come cheap, though," T'laren said with a sigh. "Where's my sandwich?"

"Let's call someone," Azrael said, twisting around in her seat. She needn't have bothered, though, as at that moment one of the boys behind the counter had appeared with T'laren's order in hand. "Ah, good, and get me another one of these too, would you?" she asked, lifting her empty glass.

"Sure. And here," he said, handing her a folded sheet of paper.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it from him.

"Honestly, I don't know," he said, shrugging. "It came from the fax machine addressed to you, Azrael." Azrael was one of their regulars. Very regular. Sometimes a grumpy 6.30 in the morning regular. "I'll go get that refill for you now." He left.

"So what is it?" T'laren asked, already digging into his sandwich and trying not to get the overstuffed vegetables to fall on the table surface.

Azrael's eyes had narrowed as she gingerly opened the piece of paper. She skimmed it briefly and then silently handed it to T'laren.

He took it and appraised it through bites. It was simply addressed to Azrael on top, followed by a short note down in the middle that said:

'I beg you to reconsider. Come to the old church across the park tonight at nine so that we can talk about the specifics. I will be waiting in the fourth confessional box. I know I will you see you there. And if you're curious, I pay quite generously.'

"Persistent little fucker, this guy," T'laren said, putting the note down. "Kinda creepy too. So what are you going to do about this?"

By this time a new mocha latte had been placed on the table. Azrael calmly took a sip from it. "First I want to find out how this guy is spying on me and where."

T'laren nodded. "Been looking around myself. Nobody in particular stands out. But then again that would be the mark of a good spy, wouldn't it?" he calmly scanned the area out of the corners of his eyes. "Can't tell if anybody's been lingering in or out of the place for longer than they should. That means this guy is either very good or can hire extremely good people."

"Hmm, someone of means," Azrael mused, glancing at the note again.

"So what're you going to do? Keep ignoring this guy?" T'laren asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"No, I have a better idea," Azrael said, grinning in a conniving manner. "I'm going to show up. His or her problem will be that you will too."

T'laren grinned with her. "I'm game. So what do you have in mind?"

»»»

The old church was an elegant but now somewhat dilapidated building whose gothic-like façade was marred more by the modern shopping center situated near it. A different shade of brown paint, used by nuns to cover graffiti, dominated most of the west wall and was clearly visible even in the dim glow of the streetlight. Azrael took little notice of it as she crossed the street from the park and entered the church.

Inside was the picture of serenity, with the choir practicing hymns up near the altar and a few of the devout scattered in the pews, head bowed. A drop fell from the ceiling and splashed into the basin of holy water to the right. Azrael looked up to see that heavy rains had rotted the wood and was now leaking through. Looking around she spotted the confessionals and walked over, stopping in front of the fourth one.

The door to the compartment meant for the priest was locked. That was to be expected, Azrael supposed. With a sigh she slid into the private section beside it and closed the door.

"Ah, good, I like people who are punctual," the same digitalized voice said.

Azrael looked visibly uncomfortable with her surroundings. "If only to get all of this over with quickly."

"For somebody named after an angel you don't seem to be too happy with where you are."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were here to talk about my personal shit," Azrael said sarcastically.

"Of course. My apologies."

While they had been bickering Azrael had taken the time to examine the veiled window in front of her. There was a shadow that was decidedly human behind the covering. She frowned. This seemed a little too easy.

Outside the church there was an inconspicuous black van parked at the curb. Inside T'laren tapped the earphones he was wearing as he fidgeted with the screens and various gadgets. There was too much static in the old church, what with the choir practice and all. There was some underlying disturbance he was pretty sure wasn't supposed to be there, though.

Before he could deduce what it was, something bounded to his side and dropped heavily in the seat, startling him. "T'laren, I'm bored! Are we actually going to do something that doesn't involve sitting around?"

"Katy, don't do that!" T'laren snapped, fixing his earphones and giving his companion an impatient look. "Listen, I told you what we were going to do when I called you up, remember?"

"Yeah, you said we were going to catch this psycho who's pestering Azrael about sabotaging the WWE writing team," Katy sulked, crossing her arms. "Somehow that gave me the impression that it was going to be more exciting than all this," she gestured into the air.

"What can I get you to keep you quiet for the next ten minutes?"

Katy brightened a little at that. "An ice cream sundae. Caramel. With chocolate sprinkles on top."

"I meant anything readily accessible in this van, Katy."

"Though luck. Those are my conditions, take them or leave 'em, pal. It's either that or I start singing 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' in falsetto, pissing off even Azrael. She can hear us, right?"

"Oh you wouldn't dare."

Katy gave him a look that clearly stated, 'Oh wouldn't I?' and then took a deep breath before beginning to bellow, "MY BONNIE…"

"All right, all right!" T'laren yelled, tossing off his headphones and sliding the van door open. "But stay in this van, keep quiet and back Azrael up on anything she needs, got it?"

"I promise," Katy said sweetly, already having taken his evacuated seat. "Hurry up now, wouldn't want all that ice cream to melt on the way back, now do we?"

T'laren grumbled something under his breath as he closed the door and set off for the chopping center. "I knew I should have called Luke instead…"

Back inside the church, Azrael resiliently kept her outward calm demeanor, despite the fact that Katy had resolutely broken her promise and was now singing something out of the chorus line of 'Cinderella'. She tapped her earpiece and sighed. "We should have called Luke…"

"Did you say something?" the person behind the window said.

"Just wondering why on earth I'm here," Azrael said back sharply. "So, are you going to pitch your idea to me in a hopefully more palatable form or will I have to call this another waste of an hour of my life?"

"I've already given you the gist of what I want," the robotic voice said as impatiently as a robotic voice would allow. "The WWE creative team. You know as well as I do how much of a shambles it is. Despite what you did to serve as a boost in the women's division a few months ago, few changes have been made. Stephanie is still as absent as ever, which can now be forgiven due to her condition."

"Oh yes, carrying the Baby Game," Azrael said with a sigh. "A gargantuan task indeed, especially if it'll grow up to be anything like its father."

A rather eerie chuckle came from the distorted voice. "I was informed about your dry wit."

"Really? And what else?"

"That's irrelevant. We should get back to business now, as I'm sure you'd like to make it back home in time to watch 'Lost' reruns."

Azrael blinked. This guy knew way too much about her for her liking.

"Following Eddie Guerrero's death it seems WWE Creative decided that the two hour special in his honor held enough class to tide them into next year, giving them a free hand into making as many stinkers as they want. As a result we've had Shelton Benjamin's momma, Edge's poor transitional run, the Spirit Squad, Mark Henry, the weakest Tag Team Division to date, the return of the Vince McMahon Kiss My Ass Club and…"

"The ever lovable Randy Orton declaring 'Eddie is in hell'," Azrael finished for him. "Decided to save the worst for last, huh?"

"Call it the cherry on top of the shit pile, if you will."

"So what is it exactly that you want me to do?" Azrael said, tapping her earpiece again as Katy found the stereo in the van and cranked it up so that the Arctic Monkeys' 'I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor' was reverberating through her head.

"Like I said, take on the Creative Team."

"How?" Azrael said impatiently. "Storm in on them with guns blazing, kick them out on their asses and declare that I'm taking over, despite not being affiliated with WWE whatsoever? I'd get arrested. Or sued. Again."

The robotic voice made a noise of displeasure. "Azrael, I'm disappointed in you. You're a woman of more finesse than that, and I'm insulted that you assume I think differently."

"Right now I think you're a douchebag. Would that be an inaccurate assumption as well?"

"You guys bicker too much," Katy suddenly said into Azrael's ear with a yawn for emphasis. "Can't I just burst in there now and kick his side of the booth open? I know it's a church, but I'll try to be discreet."

"Assemble a small team of your own," the voice continued, unaware of the other voice in Azrael's ear or her discomfort. "Make sure that they are quick, trustworthy and capable. Assure them that they'll be well paid for their efforts. From there infiltrate WWE Creative. Use your contacts; bribe, blackmail, trick people to get the job done, basically do what you do best. By the end of the month I want to see the team fall… or at least some visible results on WWE programming."

"He does know that TNA is a suitable replacement, right?" Katy said.

"Do we have a deal, Azrael?" the mystery person asked.

"Please, Azzie," Katy whined. "Let me take this loser on! You better agree now and let me do it before T'laren comes back with that ice cream and I have enough sugar in me to run up and down the Empire State Building stairs, over and over and over…"

"Whatever you need for the operation will be supplied to you without question," the mystery person continued, taking Azrael's hesitation to be a sign of backing out. "Money is no object, although I suppose you of all people would have no problem in that department. And it'll give you a chance to wipe all that crap from television. Surely you can't still be saying no to this."

"I can't wait any longer, Azzie, I'm coming in!" Katy cried, as she apparently launched out of her chair and threw the van door open.

"Damnit, Katy, no, stay where you are!" Azrael yelled in a fit of frustration.

"Katy?" the robotic voice asked. And then it seemed to dawn on the person. "You have backup, don't you? Yes, yes, of course you do; frankly I would have been disappointed if hadn't done at least that much. Well, you'll find that I came prepared too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Azrael demanded.

Outside T'laren was returning from where he had pestered the crew at McDonald's to serve him a Sundae in a custom-sized tub. He was just in time to see Katy disappearing into the church. "Oh great," he groaned.

And then his eyes caught a movement at the wall of the church farthest from him. A person in a dark trench coat stepped out of the shadows. At that precise moment a black, nondescript car turned the corner, grounded to a halt in front of the coated figure, waited for the person to get in and then sped off in to the night. Mud had been smeared on the license plates to keep anyone from identifying them.

With the alarm bells in his head going off, T'laren bolted for the church himself.

Inside Katy had burst in most indiscreetly and then proceeded to kick down the nearest confessional door. "I've got you, you scumbag!" she said triumphantly, only to be faced with an old priest, in the middle of absolving the sins of someone in the adjoining section, who looked quite taken aback with Katy's appearance.

"Katy," a dry voice said. Katy turned to find Azrael standing outside the fourth booth. "This would be the right one."

"Oh, right, right," Katy said. Running over before anybody could stop her, she let go with a jubilant, 'hi-YA!' and fairly flew into the door, knocking it wide open.

"Goddamnit, Katy, I told you to stay into the…" T'laren trailed off as he joined the girls in looking inside the booth.

It was empty save for a rather androgynous mannequin dressed in a black coat with a cap pulled low over its head, giving off the shadow Azrael had noticed earlier. On its lap balanced a radio and a large envelope. Katy groaned. "So he was never here all along!" she said. "And to think I missed 'The Biggest Loser' for this!"

"You watch 'The Biggest Loser'?" Azrael asked, momentarily throw off by that remark.

"Hey, all that jiggling fat in slow motion is hypnotizing," Katy said with a shrug.

Meanwhile T'laren had reached over and taken the radio. "So this was what was causing that disturbance," he mused. "I think he was conducting the business from outside all along."

"Outside?" Azrael asked.

"I'll tell you later," T'laren said, handing the envelope to her. "Right now, let's leave before the congregation regains its senses and decides to chase us out of here wielding torches and staffs. Come on, Katy," he took her arm.

"Oh hey, my ice cream!" she said, taking it from him and peering at it. "Hey, there's not enough sprinkles on this…" she complained as the two of them exited the church.

Azrael looked suspiciously at the envelope. A post-it had been placed on it saying, 'Azrael, consider this your starting capital.' Looking inside she did a quick estimate and placed the bundled cash at about ten thousand dollars. She wondered what kind of person would have the means to throw large amounts of money at something as crazy as taking on WWE creative, herself excluded.

"Excuse me, young lady," a firm voice said to her right. She turned to see the old priest looking ruffled. "I'm going to have to ask you to explain what all this is—"

He cut himself off when Azrael dropped two large bundles of cash in his hand. "That's for the disturbance and to pay for damages, father," she said, gesturing to the two broken doors. "Get the wall outside painted and the roof fixed too. Bye."

And with that she strode off after her two companions. It looked like she indeed had a job to do.