Welly, well, well. Folks, I have here, a story I told myself I wasn't ever going to write. For reason number one, that these are real people, and that my writing stories about them is kinda weird. I had to explain to myself that they are ALSO characters. CM Punk isn't a real person. Phil Brooks is, but CM PUNK, is not. Punk is a character. And therefore this isn't creepy.
Also, just to make sure my friends don't find this, I'm writing this under a different alias here on . This is our secret, shhhhhh. Also, mistakes may be present, pretend they are hugs for you personally. - Boom
SURVIVOR SERIES
By: Boomshakalakka
The turbulence was the worst he had ever been through, and that was saying something. He felt the tickle in his stomach as the airliner dropped hundreds of feet before making the climb back up to its original cruising altitude.
"Mercy, who booked this flight?" A rather snooty voice from behind him had Punk craning his head over the seat to catch a glimpse of an ashen faced Damien Sandow, who was trying to become one with his seat, about hurl as the plane dipped and rattled around once more.
There was a snort from across the aisle as Dolph Ziggler adjusted the Sky Mall magazine he was idly flipping through, "I believe that this was your doing, Sandy pants."
Punk slowly cocked a brow at the name 'Sandy pants' as the plane bobbed up and down. Dolph was known to give out the oddball nicknames. Punk himself had a rather impressive collection of them, courtesy of the noodle haired wrestler, but Sandow habitually took offense to anything that even hinted at 'childishness' on the part of the flamboyant showman.
"It was a rhetorical statement, and had you and that uninspiring associate of yours, Ryder, not piddled away your morning screwing around, we could have promptly been on the first flight back with the others!" Sandow accused the bleach blonde wrestler in his trademark patient, yet overly condescending, tone of voice.
"Hey! We were not 'piddling' or 'screwing around'. We were sightseeing."
"Indeed. If you plea rubbernecking the female receptionist at the Subway, 'sightseeing'."
"Ladies! Ladies, please!" Daniel Bryan, who had been trying, and failing to sleep a few rows up, barked back at them. "This flight is difficult enough without you two continuously bickering."
Ryder, who had been…not in his seat, finally flumped down next to Punk and buckled in, "Now, now, Danny my man. It's just politics. We'll keep it down anyhow."
Daniel's beard twitched as his deadpanned gaze never wavered from the spikey haired goofball, "Thanks…"
Ryder just shook his head. "Cranky, I tell ya'." He said softly to Punk, who flashed his seatmate a halfhearted grin as his stomach, once again, was left in the dust several dozen feet above.
"Where were you?" He asked, slowly digging his fingers into his armrest.
"Bathroom, man. I had blood sausages and they are murder on the stomach."
Despite how terrible the flight was going, the innate fear of falling thousands of feet out of the air and dying, and a certain severe distaste for storms- especially the one they were traveling through at that very moment, CM Punk was able to overlook all of this to give the sunglasses wearing wrestler a freaked out look. "Seriously, I don't know what to say to that aside from see a doctor A.S.A.P."
Ryder seemed confused. "What?"
"And for the record, ew."
"Wait, what?"
A long sigh that spoke of intense suffering came from behind them. "Blood sausages are considered a staple in Irish cuisine..." Sandow muttered.
Punk wanted to gag. "What the fuck are we talking about?"
"Sausages man," Ryder seemed to have caught up, "They are like, fat super brats or something. I ate them for breakfast, and hot damn, are they giving me the lava turds."
What the hell was wrong with this group? "You better have cracked a window, man. I don't want to smell that." What was he supposed to say?
"Why couldn't I have made the first flight? Why must I be punished so?" Sandow pondered morosely out loud as the little light that signaled everyone to buckle-up pinged overhead.
"They're just now letting us know this is a seat belt situation?" Daniel's incredulous disembodied voice rose up from in front of them.
Lightening flashed wickedly bright outside his window, making him flinch. The plane dipped roughly again, and he gripped desperately at the armrest. "Shiiiiiit." He gulped thickly, wishing he, like Sandow, was on the first flight with the majority of the wrestlers that had traveled all the way to Europe, England, and Ireland for the RAW World Tour. He had made this flight a few times before, at least twice a year for the last six, but never had the Atlantic crossing been this bad.
And they were only hour five into the seven hour flight.
Despite Zack and Dolph's objections about not making their group late for their scheduled flight- they definitely didn't contribute to a united front arriving on time. No, it was just one of those mornings that everyone was predictably running late, what with the Dynamic Dumbasses screwing around, and the traffic being crazy to Dublin International, it was a wonder they even made it to the airport at all. Daniel had driven their rented van, because aside from Sheamus, Finlay, Wade Barret, and one or two other South African guys scattered amongst the wrestlers, Daniel was the only one in their group that could navigate the abnormal driving conditions without much trouble. Sandow refused to drive anywhere, and it was just a bad idea to ask either Zack or Dolph.
Period.
Personally, he could have driven, but most of the guys were backseat drivers and that annoyed the absolute crap out of him, so he couldn't be bothered on these international tours.
The thing was, the larger group that included a lot of the top people- Cena, Orton, Big Show, Sheamus, all the Diva's except Kaitlyn, The Miz, and so on, had made the original flight booked earlier that morning. Punk's group consisted of the all the late arrivals that had discovered their ride home had left almost fifteen minutes prior, forcing them to wait for the next flight out. So here he was in the middle of this nightmare of a journey with all the…screwballs of the WWE, it seemed, packed into the eight o'clock overnight trip.
There were only a few of them left at the airport when Bethany, (at least that's what he thought her name was) one of the newer WWE coordinators, had taken down their names and together with Damien, made the arrangements to get everyone home. Dolph Ziggler and Zack Ryder, Damien Sandow, Daniel Bryan, and poor Kaitlyn, who he had seen sleeping fitfully next to a rather pale Cody Rhodes, further up the line of seats, were all the wrestlers that were flying this trip. There were, of course, one or two talent managers, and Bethany, that had resignedly stayed behind to make sure the last of the 'talent' made it into the air, but that was it.
It would have been fantastic being so light on the chaos that the WWE tended to trail everywhere had Mother Nature not decided to play ping pong with their flight.
The fasten seat-belt sign pinged again, and Punk grit his teeth as the plane hit another particularly brutal patch of turbulence. "I hate this." Ryder whined beside him as he slunk down further in his seat, desperately trying to grasp hold of something secure and solid that wasn't in a metal tube thirty thousand feet up.
Punk couldn't agree more. "I don't think I've ever had to deal with a flight this bad."
Sandow sighed tiredly. "Nor can I."
"Where's the stewardess with the booze cart? I need a something strong enough to knock a horse over." Dolph leaned out into the aisle, looking to see if he could track down one of the flight attendants.
"I do consent to the notion that a little libation might quell the nerves enough to recuperate for our next show." Sandow agreed as only he could, which made both Dolph and Zack exchange exasperated looks.
"You could just say 'I need a beer', Sandy." Zack suggested as he turned in his seat to look at the dark haired wrestler behind him. "Seriously, we won't judge."
"How…acquiescent of you." The overly educated member of their group returned tiredly. "And for the record, I prefer at least a twelve year Scotch, or a twenty year whiskey…nothing less."
"Hope simple Jack number seven will do." Dolph chirped as he unbuckled his seat belt and started to stand. "I'm gonna go find us some fire water."
"Dolph! Please, would you sit down?" A harassed sounding voice called up the aisle to them. "It's unwise to go anywhere in this turbulence."
Speak of the devil, the plane shuttered and bobbed so hard, he thought he heard it groan. His hands were starting to cramp from the death grip he had on the armrests. Dolph grasped tightly to the seat in front of him as he rode out the commotion before turning to address whoever had taken the time to corral the bleach blonde.
"Aw, Lizzie B, we need something to help calm our nerves. And since CM Punkerella is such a goody two-shoes, we can't indulge in Nightquil without his disapproving stare busting our balls."
He did not. "I do not stare, you goon. Do whatever the hell lights your fancy." He snipped, irritated.
"See! He's already on us." Dolph gestured to his tattooed friend. "I just want a drink. I can't take much more of this bouncing."
"Well sit down, and I'll go get you your drink. Corporate would hang me if you were injured during transportation." This so called Lizzie B said as she stopped and braced herself against the low ceiling and the top of Zack's seat.
"You make is sound like we're cows heading to market." Zack spoke up.
"More like pigs." Sandow's low voice interjected, and despite how awful things were going, Punk snorted in amusement.
The coordinator sighed loudly. "If I go get your drinks, will you sit back down?" She demanded.
He agreed, and Lizzie B waited pointedly until Dolph was reseated and strapped down until asking what it was he wanted to drink.
She took everyone's order as she steadied herself as best she could against the plane's seats and overhead. Poor fool.
"Would you like a soda or anything, Phillip?" She asked politely of him, and he finally turned to look at her. It was unusual that anyone in this troupe would use his given name. Normally, wrestlers just called each other by their stage names, and for Punk, that was just fine with him. Only family, or childhood friends referred to them by birth titles, because how lame was it when one's grandmother called corporate offices and asked for her 'Punkypie'?
He was still praying three years later that no one outside the amused receptionist knew of this nick-name.
Lizzie B was much younger than he would have expected, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, shoulder length copper hair, and glasses that framed bright eyes. "Pepsi if they have it. Ginger Ale if they don't, thanks."
She nodded her head, before turning back to Dolph. "Now stay put, please." With that, she moved carefully up the aisle, ignoring the odd looks she was getting from the few scattered passengers flying along with them, and stopping only to take the orders of Daniel, Cody, and Kaitlyn on her way past.
"That poor girl deserves a plaque." Sandow observed as they all watched their coordinator stumble stiffly as another rough patch hit their flight.
Punk just closed his eyes, silently pleading that the storm would pass soon enough. A loud chime sounded above them as the captain's voice filled the cabin. "We are experiencing some mechanical difficulty, please, return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Again, please, return to your seats, and fasten your seatbelts."
His announcement was followed by a bloated silence that seemed to last way longer then the three seconds it technically was, before a concerned hum rose up from the passengers.
Zack especially seemed worried. "What sort of mechanical difficulty? Why didn't he explain further?"
"Hopefully it's just the air-conditioning." Dolph rejoined optimistically. "And not anything critical."
"Why would he even open his mouth if it were simply the air-conditioner?" Sandow snapped almost hysterically…for him.
Between the cracks in the seats, Punk could see Daniel's face flash apprehensively back at him. "This flight just gets shittier and shittier." He said rigidly, feeling his heart rate increase as the plane experienced more turmoil at the hands of the storm raging just outside.
Their poor coordinator practically materialized before them with an arm load of drinks and cups. "Here," She rushed. "Dolph's three Vodkas, Zack's tequila, Sandow's scotch or bourbon, Daniels juice, and your Pepsi." She practically tossed several tiny bottles at them before holding up a small stack of clear Dixie like cups. "Your cups. Now sit and be safe until we clear this." With that, she blitzed past them back to her own seat.
"A raise might be fitting as well." the seat behind him opined, blandly.
Zack popped the top on his tequila shots and threw them back, one at a time in rapid succession while Dolph was doing much the same across the aisle. Punk looked at his own mini can of Pepsi, but his stomach felt too queasy to even think about drinking anything. The thought of dying had that affect.
Sometimes he resented his straight edge life style, because he could have gone for something to repress the nerves enough so he didn't stroke out before they ever reached Atlanta International.
The seat belt light chirped once again, but it was almost completely drowned out from the rattling and thumping of shifting luggage in the overhead compartments.
This was alarming.
It was a shame this moment was wasted on Zack, who was busy high fiving a rapidly slipping Dolph.
"Best in the World, bro! Woo WOO woooo!" The dirty blonde chanted obnoxiously.
"You KNOW it!" Dolph answered, before the two broke out into hysterics. "Right Sunny Sandypatty?!"
Ah, to be simple in a complex world. Punk could admire it from affair, since it looked so pleasant compared to the reality that was shaking apart around him.
"Sweet, merciful, Jesus! If their intellect plummeted any further, we'd have to water them weekly to ensure survival." Sandow exploded as the two in question started singing a pathetic rendition to John Cena's entrance music, a favorite of theirs while intoxicated.
He was in Hell. He had to be.
At that moment, the plane shifted, dipping dangerously to the right. It was so sudden, that his head connected with the lip of the small window. Rubbing angrily at his temple while he used his other hand to brace himself against the seat in front of him, and fought the irrational rage that came when he hurt himself.
Punk wished adamantly that he was on the ground. Preferably home in Chicago where his biggest worry was being taken out by a taxi driver or bus.
The intercom binged, and the captain's voice once again filled the cabin.
"We are going to attempt an emergency landing, I repeat, an emergency landing. Please brace yourselves for impact."
"Holy fuck, where?! We're currently over the flippin' Atlantic Ocean!" Someone up a few rows and over in the center seats yelled immediately following the captain's announcement.
Punk felt the blood drain from his face while his breathing escalated.
They were going to crash!
Zack and Dolph seemed to have gracefully accepted their fate- granted they were off with the fairies- and had proceeded with their singing, waving their arms about their head's like they were swatting slow moving flies.
The rest of the planes populace had a very different reaction, however.
Someone hit the back of his seat. Somewhere another poor soul was sobbing, pleading that they make it home to their children.
Punk felt like he was trying to suck air through a straw, he couldn't quite focus on what was happening.
He was wasting his last moments.
"Damnit Dolph! Bend over your knees and cover your head!" He heard Sandow bellow like a bull.
Whoever was directly behind him hit his seat again, and the noise level in the cabin greatly increased to a cacophonous roar of voices- reassuring, begging, crying, consoling. Lighting was flashing intermittently with increasing frequency in his window, temporarily whiting everyone out in the cabin.
It was without a doubt the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.
People were going to die.
He was going to die…his friends were going to die.
The plane was shaking so badly now, and the feeling of having left his insides high above his head let him know they were dropping fast. If he focused on it, he could actually feel the speed at which the aircraft was traveling.
He bent over, fighting the force that was smashing him to his seatback, and hugged his knees hard.
This sucked so bad. Survival was rarely expected in crashes involving jet liners. He would never get to speak to his family again, tell his sister he loved her again…
His grandma would be heartbroken...
From the corner of his eye, he saw Zack's black converse shoes. Turning his head, he could see a blank look in the normally animated goofball's face as he just sat in his seat as if he were at the movies. He must have been on overload.
"Zack, get down!" Punk snapped, as he reached for the dirty blonde and all but head slammed him down on his knees. "Cover your head, and hold on!"
"Are we going to die?" Zack asked in a small, childlike voice as he obediently followed his older friend's orders.
Punk knew they were running out of time and that they only had seconds left.
He couldn't waste them. "I don't know, man." He said back quietly as the roaring from the engines and the screaming of the people around them all but swallowed his words.
Zack must have understood, and he looked sad. "Oh…"
"Brace for impact!" The captain's voice thundered around the cabin, and Punk squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed that this was a nightmare, and that he would wake up on one of the hard plastic trunks the WWE stage crew used to transport all the equipment and ring gear which the wrestlers also sometimes used to catch a quick impromptu nap. He regretted that they had not made the original flight with the other guys.
He wished they weren't going to die.
Zack whimpered and Punk answered back by pressing his side into his friend's ribs.
The feel of Zack pushing back was the last tangible thing he knew, as the world exploded on impact.
-Ho snip snip snap- Booshakalakka