Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the below characters/individuals and this is a work of fiction
Music and lights blurred seamlessly together as Shawn shakily filled his shot glass for the umpteenth time that evening. He had bought a bottle having learnt from past experience that the bartender tended not to count if he wasn't pouring the bourbon. He could hear people all around him. On the dance floor, on his left side and on his right side, but it only fueled the ambience of his drunken haze. Nobody spoke to him and he didn't speak to anybody else. This worked.
Shawn clumsily put the half-empty bottle back on the bar and picked up his glass with two fingers. The sides of the glass were sticky from where he had spilt the good bourbon. Briefly, he thought about running his fingers over the bar and licking them clean to ensure he had every drop, but he resisted. He was nowhere near drunk enough for that to seem like a good idea in a public place.
"This is for you kid," Shawn slurred before he downed the small cup of liquid and slammed the empty onto the bar. The bourbon was smooth, and honey flavored making it sticky but very easy to drink.
This is for you kid? Shawn thought as he pondered the words that had slipped out without consideration. He licked the sticky alcohol from his lips and frowned.
For Marty Jeanetty? His original partner in crime and the first friend he had when he entered the intimidating world that was The World Wrestling Federation. The Tag Team partner and friend who wanted to bury the hatchet but got a mouthful of glass at the hands of The Heartbreak Kid himself. Shawn scowled.
"No, he was slowing me down, holding me back. I had to do it," Shawn muttered as he snatched the bottle and poured another glass full. "I got the Intercontinental Belt and HE didn't. Hell, if it was up to that loser, he'd have been my partner until I was fifty! I've had less clingy girlfriends."
Shawn tilted his head back and gulped down the shot. Fuck Marty. Fuck him and his inability to grow in the world. So, who was the kid?
Bret Hart? Shawn snorted. The guy was hardly a kid, but he had temper tantrums to rival even the shittiest toddler. Shawn remembered facing that bastard down numerous times over the course of his career. Bret had a habit of backing you into a wall or corner when nobody was around. The Hitman had a habit of throwing his weight around with his holier than thou mantra. Shawn grabbed the bottle and poured himself another glass.
"Y'know, I ain't even sorry for Montreal… Disrespecting me. Not dropping the belt because of some Hart Foundation code he made up. Failed cowboy show. Stupid pink costume. The Asshole has the nerve to corner me in the locker room and threaten me…" Shawn took the shot and slammed the glass down harder than before. "That asshole pulled my hair out!"
So.. Nash and Hall? Shawn sighed. They had left. Left for bigger, better things and he understood or at least, Shawn tried really hard to understand. Had he been an asshole to them? Shawn slumped over the bar. He could feel the stickiness of the bar under his bare skin, but it did not faze him. It was his mess. Shawn was good at living in his own mess.
"Fuck them guys too. I made them. They had no right to leave now. Not now. Not when it's on me… I gotta do it. I gotta do the thing." Shawn looked at the bottle. "I gotta do the thing now.."
"What thing, Shawn?" A deep familiar voice asked from behind. It stood out vividly from the music and other senseless chatter. A large lopsided smile broke out on Shawn's face.
"The company. I gotta be the face of the company," Shawn sing-sung before he barked a loud, sudden laugh. "Hunter, does this face look like the face of the company?"
"I don't know Shawn I can't see your face."
Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Triple H. Paul. His friend. His best-fucking-friend since Marty took a nose dive and Nash and Hall had jumped ship. Big, reliable Paul who didn't drink and liked to make everything boring because of his lame tee-total lifestyle. Shawn lifted himself up from the bar and awkwardly turned on his stool to face the larger man. Paul stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and a concerned, yet bored, look on his face. Shawn narrowed his eyes.
"Fuck you for not having any fucking flaws. Can't make it on your own so you have to hang out with me for screen time. How's it working for you, Paul? Still eating shit because Vince got pissed you broke kayfabe? I didn't have to eat shit. I'm the face. I'm the champion. Shit is not something I eat."
"Yeah and what a champion you are Shawn…" Said Paul. "C'mon, I'll take you back to the hotel and you can sleep it off."
"No. No no no no." Shawn spun round, grabbed the bottle and then returned to face Paul. "This is for the kid. The kid who got everything he always wanted but he hasn't got a fucking idea what to do with it."
Shawn made a move to put the bottle to his lips but stopped when the bottle was snatched from his grip as if he was a child holding a loaded gun. Shawn wanted to reach for the bottle smash it over the idiot's huge head. He wanted to down the bottle dry and wake up in the morning with a raging headache but no memory. He wanted the anxiety and fear to leave him alone. He wanted the ratings to stop plummeting under his leadership. Shawn wanted to go a week without the crippling fear of responsibility on his shoulders.
Shawn realized that he and Paul had been staring at each other. He then realized his mouth was agape, that he was breathing heavily and that tears had started to roll down his cheeks. Shawn took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and wiped his face with his bourbon smelling arm.
"Well Shawn, I hope for the kids' sake that one day when he asks for help, he'll actually take it."
"Me too Paul. Me too."