Uncommon Sense Prologue
By Batistafan
Rating - NC-17 for violence
Distribution: If you would like to add this story to your site that's fine, just let me know.
Main Characters include: Batista, Triple H, Chris Jericho, Christy Hemme, Nancy Adams (Original Character).
Disclaimer: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains violence, coarse language, as well as mature sexual situations (some may consider explicit), and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.
I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.
I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.
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"'Mother' is the word for 'God' on the lips of a child."
- Brandon Lee, The Crow
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Prologue
Amarillo, Texas
1993
"Nothin'! That's what the hell you are." The woman weaved back and forth on wobbly legs, a half consumed bottle of Jim Beam dangling precariously from her hand. Her damp, stringy hair swung in time with her unsteady sway "You'll never be nothin' neither!"
Thirteen year old Nancy Adams tried, to no avail, to ignore the verbal assault that was being waged by her mother. Even with her back turned it was hard to concentrate on the dishes in front of her, submerged in the hot soapy water, even harder to concentrate on the glass in her hand. Nancy swallowed deeply as she let the wet washcloth slide over the smooth surface of the glass and then dunked it into the rinse water. She was shaking, fearful and unknowing. It was so hard to predict when a tirade would begin, what would set it off and how it would end. Nancy's small, silent prayer flew upward. At least she wanted to believe that her prayer was headed up there. That God would hear it and rise up and defend her, the way King David had described in the book of Psalms. God only knew that prayer was the only thing on earth Nancy had going for her.
"Your fault…" The words coming from her mother's mouth became more garbled with each passing moment as the fetid stench of whiskey purled from her mouth, like an unseen cloud. "You're the reason he left." An anguished groan escaped her mother's lips, the pain of her loss etched in the mass of lines and wrinkles on her face.
Nancy drew a deep, shaky breath and stayed silent knowing that arguing and presenting a defense was only going to make the situation worse. She wouldn't bother to explain that it wasn't her fault that her father was gone…it didn't matter that he had been killed saving Nancy's life.
In the eyes of Diane Adams…everything was her fault. Nothing could ever be said to change that. Nancy pulled her hands out of the water and prayed again for a distraction, something, anything to divert her mother's focus away from her. 'Hey God, Now might be a dandy time for the cops to raid that crack house next door' She prayed silently.
Nancy turned to pull a tattered dish towel off of the oven door handle, and was met with the force of a blow that she had not fully anticipated. The bottle that up until now, had been seated loosely in the sweating confines of her mother's palm, connected with a sickening thud to the side of Nancy's wrist. It had been meant for her head.
Barely able to shield her skull from the swinging force of the liquor bottle, Nancy's arm slammed into the side of her face, propelled by the initial impact of the bottle and she fell onto the cold, cracked linoleum floor. Nancy felt the familiar separation of her shoulder from its socket, and with the resounding 'pop', an explosion of pain riveted from one side of her body to the other.
"You!" The accusing voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, even as Nancy fought to remain conscious. The recognizable metallic flavor swirled slowly into the recesses of her mouth and she knew instantly that it was blood. Trying to spit it out only produced a string of spittle that dribbled from her lips down her cheek and onto the hopelessly filthy floor. Nancy could smell the blood now, and a wave of sickness nearly brought forth her dinner.
The woman standing above her weaved a poetic slur of expletives, though not articulately spoken…they were all recognizable. Nancy had surely heard each of those a dozen other times and despite the beckoning darkness that promised to sooth her, she vowed to stay awake.
She bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to shake off the haze of solitude that threatened to overtake her. Nancy rolled her head sideways toward the sound of her mother's voice and was relieved to see the woman, in her drunken stupor, wobbling backward toward the cupboard on the opposite side of the room. Diane slammed, ass first into the cupboards and with an amused snort, slid unceremoniously down onto the floor, completely exhausted.
Nancy's breath came out in labored heaves, causing a stray tendril of chestnut hair to flap up and down each time she did so. She watched her mother's head loll back and forth as if somehow the cervical spine had been removed and she had been left with nothing to support it. If Nancy hadn't been in so much pain…she honestly might have laughed. The sharp bark of a snore startled Nancy and the soft plunk of the half-full, surprisingly unbroken, Jim Beam bottle sliding from her grasp to the floor was evidence that Diane had drifted off to sleep.
Nancy pulled herself up with her good arm, by grasping a cabinet door knob and hefting her weight upward. Pain blazed through her like a lightening bolt, as even mere movement jarred the injured arm and she resisted the urge to scream. She blew out a frustrated puff of air and gritting her teeth, she managed to stand to her full height.
Nausea threatened to overwhelm her as she glanced downward, noting that her arm hung at a fiercely odd angle. Dislocation was a familiar friend to Nancy, having happened to her twice before…each time brought on by the catalyst that was her own mother, and surely aided by the alcohol that had become Diane's constant companion.
A wall of cold air blasted into her face as Nancy stepped out onto the rickety wooden steps at the front of her trailer. For a split second she thought about going back in for her coat, but decided that she probably couldn't get it on anyhow. Instead, she decided that she had better come up with another convincing injury story. Bracing herself against the pain and the cold wind she kicked the door shut behind her and set out to walk the distance to the county hospital.
Monday Night 2005 – 12 Years Later
The sewing machine groaned in protest as the faulty zipper foot spun loose causing the needle to catch on the plate below. The needle bent sideways sinking its tip nearly a quarter of an inch into Nancy's index finger. She yanked her finger back suddenly, muttering an oath.
"Everytime!" She hissed. "Stupid machine…" Snatching up the spent zipper foot, she flung it without remorse into the wastebasket, followed by the bent needle. Nancy put the tip of her finger in her mouth to stifle the small trickle of blood as she dug through her bag for a band-aid. She ignored the snicker from her sewing partner Max, secured the band-aid onto her injured finger and kneaded the ever persistent muscle ache in the back of her neck.
Desperately frustrated, Nancy decided a short break was in order for her, and a cup of coffee was beginning to sound mighty fine. She pulled the creamy, Asian silk fabric from the machine and folded it over the back of a chair, checking to make sure that she hadn't tainted it with the crimson evidence of her sewing debacle. After noting that the silk was fortunately unblemished, Nancy switched the sewing machine off and stalked toward the doorway…coffee bound.
A grunt from Max served as a wordless request for a cup with cream, no sugar. They had only worked together for several months in their current positions, but had worked as a team for the same design firm for a full two years, and so she had learned to interpret nearly full sentences from Max's various bodily noises. Nancy pushed the metal door open and stepped out into the hallway. The heavy door swung soundlessly shut and the sign on it, printed in red, bore the ever familiar RAW logo, and below it inscribed in black lettering, was the word Wardrobe.