Rey Mysterio loved Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings meant brunch buffets, they meant sleeping in until ten-thirty in the morning, they meant tearing the Sunday papers apart looking for a good comic strip, but best of all, Sunday mornings meant relaxing. Just taking it easy, lounging around the hotel suite he was sharing with Chris Jericho and Gregory Helms, no emergency phone calls from Vince to send him off on yet another promotional appearance, not too much of Jericho bugging the hell out of him since he spent the entire day chasing after pretty girls and getting the ego slapped right out of him by Stephanie afterwards...and the best part of all, no media paparazzi scaling over the fences and bugging the hell out of him. Jericho might miss all the fame and publicity, but Mysterio sure didn't. Ironically, it was Mr. Huge Rock Star/King of the World himself who'd scared away all the people trying to recruit them to do guest appearances...
Cue Flashback...
"...It's Saturday Night Live..." the TV was blaring at top volume,
to which none of the wrestlers except Shannon Moore and Jeff Hardy paid
the least bit of attention to.
"...Musical guest: Britney Spears!" Stacy Keibler perked up.
"...And your host..." Jericho perked up.
"...Random Guy Who Played Ally McBeal's Love Interest For Two Episodes!"
the SNL announcer declared grandly, to which a few crickets chirped in
response before the audience broke out in scattered, half-hearted applause,
forced out of courtesy.
"Blah!" Jericho threw the remote control at the television screen; thankfully
for Vince McMahon (since he owned every bit of furniture backstage), the
grumpy blonde Canadian's aim was off by a mile, and the remote flew through
the air and landed into a nearby fishtank.
"You know, the producers of Saturday Night Live are really running
out of remotely interesting guest hosts," Jericho complained, while the
remote control made glug-glug-glug noises as it sank to the bottom of the
tank. "This is the gazillionth time they've had some random assclown who
guest starred on some loser American sitcom host the damn show!"
"So?" Undertaker spoke up coldly, bluntly, not the least bit interested
in Jericho's dilemma.
"So? They should ask us to host the show!" Jericho exclaimed. "I
mean, how come Rock is the only one who's gotten a chance to host it? What
about the rest of us WWE Superstars? We've got more starpower than those
actors, we're much better looking...the list goes on and on. Why haven't
they called yet?"
"Chris, they have asked us to host--twice," Shannon spoke up. "Only
thing is, neither one of those two episodes made it past rehearsals." Jericho
huffed, looking offended, and placed his hands on his hips.
"Oh, so now we're not good enough for those damn Yankees, but the random
assclown who made one lousy cameo in Friends is?" he sulked, insulted.
"Actually, our starpower has nothing to do with it," the smaller blonde
spoke up delicately. He wrinkled his nose, as he added in a pointed tone,
"However, it might have to do with the fact that we never got to finish
either shows, the first time because you jumped the lead singer
of Bon Jovi when Stephanie remarked she found him sexy, and the second
time also because you found out that the musical guests that night
were Metallica, and spent the entire show stalking the poor guys like a
crazed teenybopper on a Justin Timberlake mission, trying to get autographs
and convince them to jam with you."
"Oh, oops," Jericho remarked sheepishly. "Hmm, no wonder they never called
back."
End Flashback...
So, anyway, Rey Mysterio loved Sunday mornings, especially since they meant he could finally get a chance to complete his mission for the perfect haircut--
Ding dong.
Mysterio stopped short of listing off the things
he loved about Sundays. He swore, as in the back of his mind the masked
cruiserweight ran through the list of people who could possibly be interrupting
his sacred Sunday ritual of planning his next hairstyle, before reluctantly
shuffling over to the suite's double doors and flinging them wide open.
"What?!"
he barked, somewhat rudely. But hey, give the poor little guy a break--he's
had his very sacred ritual of planning his next hairdo interrupted, after
all, on his favorite day of the week. Meanwhile, framed against the doorway
was a tall, dark-haired man with matching dark eyes and features that were
rather familiar to Mysterio. The man, dressed in a conservative black suit,
extended his hand. As Mysterio obligingly shook it, the man in the doorway
spoke.
"Good
morning, Mr. Mysterio. My name's Mulder, and I'm here to talk to you and
two of your fellow World Wrestling Entertainment Superstars about that
charity show you offered to be a part of a year ago." Mysterio's face scrunched
up--although one couldn't exactly see it behind his mask.
"Hey,"
the masked wrestler murmured critically, "aren't you that guy from The
X-Files?"
"No,"
Mulder replied quickly--a little too quickly in Mysterio's opinion.
At
that moment, Gregory Helms shuffled his way out of his bedroom, still wearing
his bathrobe and fuzzy pink bunny slippers, and with his dyed green hair
sticking out in every angle imaginable. Yawning, he nodded a greeting in
Mysterio and Mulder's direction, before continuing his trek toward the
bathroom for his daily morning shower.
"So,
as I was saying," Mulder began, "I believe you and two of your friends
signed a contract one year ago to volunteer in a charity show that would
benefit--" Suddenly, there was a crashing sound, before Helms, sans his
bunny slippers (he'd ditched them in an effort to run faster) came dashing
out from the direction of the bathroom, wide awake and with an awestruck
expression on his face.
"Hey,
aren't you that guy from--" he started to say, fumbling around the pockets
of his terry cloth robe for anything that might serve as an autograph book.
"No!"
Mulder snapped irritably. The superhero's face fell.
"Darn,"
he grumbled, and tossed away the napkin he'd been hoping to use as an autograph
paper.
"Anyway,
now that we've gotten all that identity crisis out of the way, I was trying
to inform Mr. Mysterio here that about year ago, him, you, and another
individual by the name of Chris Jericho had signed a contract for a charity
event that would benefit--" Mulder began, trying to dive back into his
sales pitch.
Just
then, the doors to the suite opened, and Chris Jericho jogged in, decked
out like the ideal rock star runner in a garishly bright red T-shirt and
equally shiny turquoise sweatpants.
"Morning,"
Jericho started to say, as he pushed past the trio gathered at the doors
and began to unlace his shiny purple running shoes. Jericho suddenly turned
around, studying Mulder critically, before opening his mouth to speak.
"Hey,
aren't you--" he started to say.
"NO!"
Mulder yelled irritably. "No, no, and no! I'm not that guy from
The X-Files!" Jericho discreetly backed away from the raving lunatic.
"All
right, all right, calm down," the Canadian wrestler muttered. "Sheesh."
Mulder,
after calming down (he kind of had to, seeing how his face was turning
blue from all the yelling he was doing) coughed and cleared his throat
longer than necessary, before continuing on.
"Ahem.
As I was saying, exactly one year ago, you three--Rey Mysterio, Gregory
Helms, and Chris Jericho--signed a contract with the XYZ Network, agreeing
to be a part of a televised charity show that would benefit a select few,"
he began, mumbling out the last part of his sentence in an incomprehensible
string of whispered words.
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Is
the XYZ Network kind of like the ABC Network?"
Mulder sighed. It looked like he would have to
explain further.
"Well,
you see, ratings for the XYZ Network have been on the decline ever since
1998, exactly five weeks after the television network first started," he
began. "And about a year ago, the executives of the network thought up
the idea of a celebrity reality show, called The Other Side Of The Coin.
It
is basically a reality TV series where the show's personnel train a group
of celebrities in one profession--say, opera singing--and try to pass them
off as people with completely different occupations--say, rugby."
"What's
the charity part?" Mysterio broke in impatiently, having been trying to
make plans about his latest hairstyle but unable to do so with Mulder--who
was supposedly
not the guy from The X-Files--ranting on about
the XYZ Network.
"The
charity part would be the ratings that the celebrities suckered into this
deal produce, which in turn will go to line the pockets of the network
executives and help them raise their salaries to more money than you and
I could possibly imagine," Mulder explained. Helms raised an eyebrow at
hearing that.
"That
doesn't really sound very charitable," he pointed out bluntly. Clearing
his throat, the green-haired superhero added, "Besides, I don't remember
signing any deal with any XYZ Network, and I've got a superheroic memory."
Mulder shifted on his feet.
"But
it's really quite the exhilarating experience," he protested, flying into
his sales pitch. "I mean for example, our first show was a huge smash when
we successfully passed off that kid from Power Rangers as a professional
boxer!"
"You
did?" Helms looked interested.
"Oh,
yeah, absolutely," Mulder assured him. "In fact, our Ranger can tell you
himself how much fun that experience was...but I never did bother
to find out the phone number of his hospital room."
"Wa...wait
a minute. This guy's in the hospital?!" Jericho's voice rose several
octaves, ending in a painfully high screech that rivaled Stephanie's infamous
shriek. Mulder shifted uncomfortably.
"Well...he's
a one-hundred-thirty-pound actor, and his first match up was against this
mean former heavyweight champion--who shall remain unnamed--and when the
poor guy accidentally pissed off his opponent...It's not as if his ear
can't be sewn back on!" Mulder sputtered defensively. Mysterio had heard
enough, and was ready to show Mulder the exit.
"Thank
you for giving us this opportunity to participate in your show, it sounds
wonderful, but I'm afraid we're going to have to train for our upcoming
European tour in, um, three years," he said quickly, propelling Mulder
out the door. Mulder, however, stood his ground on the doorway.
"But
you people signed a contract, and you can't back out of it now," he said.
"I
don't remember signing any damn contract," Jericho snapped irritably.
"But
I do," Mulder informed him. He suddenly whipped a videocassette
out of seemingly nowhere. "And...I've got the proof!"
Mulder
slid the tape into the VCR and pushed Play. There were several minutes
of static, before a picture finally showed up.
"Remember,
Scully," the dark-haired man onscreen--who bore an eerie resemblance to
Mulder, the three wrestlers noticed--"the truth is out there!" Cue to eerie
X-Files
music.
"Hey!
You are that guy from The X-Files!" Helms cried out indignantly,
his head whipping from the Mulder on the TV screen to the Mulder standing
before the trio.
"Eh
heh, you don't need to see that," Mulder tee heed nervously, and quickly
pressed Fast Forward. After several minutes, they finally came to the part
that Mulder wanted to show his victims--er, clients.
"Ah
hah! Here we are," he cried triumphantly, and the three men leaned in to
watch the so-called proof that they had signed this deal with the XYZ Network.
On
the widescreen TV, a fat, bearded man in his fifties filled up the television
monitor.
"Eeew!
Look at the boogers hanging out of his snout!" Helms cried out.
"Shush!"
Mulder snapped irritably, as Helms made faces and gave him the evil eye.
Meanwhile, back onscreen, the fat, bearded fifty-year-old man backed a
few inches away from the camera so that the viewers could take notice of
the crappy homemade mask pulled over his bald head. His greasy, sweat-stained
T-shirt bore the words Guy From WWF--Urk, That Is, WWE, written
crudely with black Magic Marker in the worst chicken-scratch handwriting
anyone had ever seen.
"My
name is Grey Mysterio, and I'm that really short dude from the WWE," the
fat, bearded man in his fifties with the luchador mask over his head and
the WWE T-shirt barely holding back the blubber jiggling around the area
that was supposedly his stomach, slurred out. At this, both Helms and Jericho
turned to stare at the real Rey Mysterio in disgust.
"Ew!
Rey, I can't believe those were your boogers!" Helms sniffed. Mysterio,
meanwhile, was gawking openmouthed at the television screen.
"They're
not!" he defended himself. Harrumphing, he added haughtily, "Those 'boogers'
happen to be my...um, manly nose hairs! So hah!"
"Yeah,
so, like, I'm that short dude with the funny mask from the WWE, and I'm
about to sign this very important contract with the XYZ Network," the fat
impostor onscreen continued. "Erm, by signing this very important contract,
I am guaranteeing that I and two of my buddies--Christian Jericho and that
weird superhero kid--will do an episode for the sure to be hit series,
The Other Side Of The Coin."
"And,
Stop," Mulder murmured, as he pressed said button on the VCR, right before
the crappy homemade luchador mask burst and popped off 'Grey' Mysterio's
shiny bald head.
"So,
there you have it, gentlemen," he spouted smugly. "You did indeed sign
a contract, and there's no backing out of it."
"Thanks
a lot, Mysterio!" Helms huffed. "Now we have to do some stupid reality
series with the XXX Network!"
"That's
XYZ, Mr. Helms," Mulder hastened to correct him.
"Yeah,
whatever," Helms muttered carelessly, with Mysterio giving him the evil
eyes for his previous remark.
"So...the
first show consisted of successfully turning some Power Ranger kid
into a boxer," Jericho spoke up cautiously. "What do you have in plan for
us?" Mulder's grin didn't exactly put him at ease.
"Well,
after much consideration, the XYZ Network has decided to turn you into...a
boy band!" he announced grandly. Dun dun dun!
"A
boy band?" Dun dun dun! Jericho gasped. Mulder nodded firmly as he replied,
"Yes, a boy band." Dun dun dun! Just then, Helms turned around.
"Who's
turning into a boy band?" Dun dun--*Okay, I've really got to stop doing
that!*
"You
are," Mulder informed him.
"No!
Not again!" Helms squeaked out. Mulder looked around at the three faces
surrounding him, each expressing certain degrees of paleness and sheer
and utter terror at those dreaded two words: Boy band!
*Silence*
*Silence*
*Silence*
*Crickets begin to chirp*
*What? I said I was going to stop doing that
whole dun dun dun thing!*
"Well,
then, my work here is done. Don't forget, you're to report to the XYZ studio
at eight o' clock sharp Wednesday morning," Mulder said happily. The trio
of WWE wrestlers didn't bother to respond, as all three were still frozen
in shock over the realization that they would have to become a boy band.
Mulder started to leave, strutting past the frozen Superstars and out the
door. Oh, well. At least it couldn't possibly get any worse than this.
Just
then, Mulder poked his head back into the room, and chirped brightly, "Oh,
and by the way, one of you is going to have to bleach his hair bright banana
blonde, one of you is going to have to pierce his eyebrows, and one of
you is going to have to wear his boxers hitched up to his nipples!" Hmm,
it looked like it just got worse--but at the very least, Mulder's announcement
snapped the trio out of their boy-band-induced daze.
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What
if I don't wear any boxers?"
At this, all eyes turned to the speaker (I'll
let you guess who he is).
"Urk...I
mean, what?!"