"Look at her. Just because she's a Diva she thinks she can hide the fact that she's a total skank? Jesus Christ, remind me why Vince hired her again?"
I could feel how asshole-worthy and unnecessary my comment was but I couldn't help it. We were all at a club here in New Orleans, celebrating a new diva's debut. Apparently, her badass demeanour made her an instant fan favourite but I was far from it. The other Superstars and I were the only people who knew the truth.
Her name was Liberty and Stephanie brought her to the locker room just a little over a week ago. The minute Stephanie spoke her name, I just knew she was trouble. Plus, she mentioned she worked in an old bar, which was basically just code for "she's a stripper but you don't have to know that". After that, all the other guys had thrown themselves at her.
Well yeah, of course she was hot. You can't be a stripper if you're not hot right? But this was just immoral. How was the company supposed to live up to their kid-friendly reputation when they have a stripper working for them?
Randy Orton and John Morisson heard this and as usual, they went all good side-bad side on me; Randy – the one with the wife – being the good and Morisson – being the thriced-divorced drunk – playing the bad guy.
Randy the Angel tells me, of course: "That is highly judgmental of you, John. No one knows the whole story yet."
Morisson the Asshole snorts and says: "I heard Vince fucked her on the ring yesterday night. That's why those fishnet stockings have got so much holes."
"How could you, Nitro? You don't even know her," Randy scolded him in what I swear was a sing-song voice.
Morisson slapped him on the head while taking a swig of his whiskey. "I swear marriage has made you such a pussy. You sure you're the one with the balls?"
I laughed outright, picturing Randy's wife Sam with a strap-on dick and Randy laying on his ass. The laughing was replaced with a sudden urge to hurl.
"What are you wearing glasses for anyway? You look retarded," Randy said, referring to Morisson's trashy shades that he wore everywhere, including night time. That was supposed to be Randy's version of an insult.
"Stop being a jealous bitch," Morisson snapped at him, adjusting his green-framed Ray-Bans.
Whatever Randy's response was going to be was distracted by loud noises and that was when I saw the woman in question being cheered on by my fellow superstars as she chugged on mug after mug of cold beer. She finished five large ones before I could say 'Holy Shit'. After that, she poured the remaining ones all over her body, the liquid running from her white Beatles band shirt to her fishnet stockings and army boots. After she was sufficiently soaked, she held on to a pole and began dancing on it.
"Liberty! Liberty!" cheered the superstars whose dicks were threatening to burst from their jeans. I swear, some of these superstars might have cock-shaped brains. Even the divas were enjoying this. They all played buddy-buddy with her from the start.
"Disgusting," John spat. "She's going to ruin this company."
"Not everyone can work the PG13 babyface, Johnnyboy or are you jealous you're not McMahon's only bitch anymore?" Morisson told him with a laugh, even Randy guffawed.
John smacked the smirk off his face. "I'm nobody's bitch, Morisson."
Morisson adjusted his glasses. "Sure you aren't, pretty boy."
"What's that supposed to -?"
"Nothing, John. Nothing at all."
I glared at my best friend. I didn't like the sound of that at all.
"Get off your asses, bitches! We've got all night!"
I groaned. Even her voice was annoying as hell. But what irritated me even more was the whoops and hollers the people were giving her as they pointlessly jumped up and down to some monotonous music.
"That looks like fun," Morisson commented. I could see the glint in his eyes.
"Don't you dare."
Morisson was off on the dance floor. That was just about enough.
"I think I'll leave now, Randy."
I didn't wait for him to reply. I just took my beer and got the hell out of there.