Flesh of the Forbidden Fruit

June, 1991

The sound of his own grunting snore woke Mark up with a start. He had been slumped over on a large sofa, the fetid stench of alcohol, sweat, and vomit filling his nose.

Head swimming, Mark risked making his head ache more by raising it and looking around the suite; Here and there, were bra and panties, other discarded clothing and liquor bottles that carpeted the floor. On the large table in front of Mark, there was a bag of marijuana, an eightball of cocaine, and a half drunk bottle of Jack Daniels. The curtains weren't drawn (to which Mark was thankful for; The sun would do his throbbing head no favors)

Mark went to get up, but had difficulty doing so. He looked down and saw why. A woman, topless, lay facedown on his torso. He lifted her gently and put her aside. He saw that he was in the buff. The price he paid when he hung out with Shawn some nights. He groaned as he scrambled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom.

Besides condom wrappers and champagne bottles everywhere, the bathroom was empty. Mark looked at himself in the mirror. His complexion was pallish, even more than usual, his long ginger hair was disordered and his eyes were bloodshot. There were lipstick prints all over his chest, neck and torso. Beads of sweat were rolling down his face and chest.

Mark was in the middle of relieving himself when the bathroom door burst open. Mark let out a startled cry, missing his intended target and hitting the walls, narrowly missing the guy at the door. There stood, Shawn, shirtless, with a champagne bottle clutched in his hand.

"Whoa, Deadman!" exclaimed Shawn. "Watch where you're aiming that thing!"

Shawn's gruff voice didn't match his volley ball player, pretty boy looks. He was 6'1 with a lean, athletic build, a bleached blond mullet and bright blue eyes. You'd think he was from California, instead of Texas until you heard him talk.

"Christ on a cross, Shawn," said Mark, annoyed. "The door was closed, can't you fucking knock?"

"It's too early in the morning for the verbal abuse," said Shawn, "besides, I didn't know you were in here."

"Damn, Shawn, you ain't got the sense God gave a billy goat," said Mark. "If you did, you should know when you see a closed door, it's usually occupied, so you knock. I'm sure your mama taught you better."

"And I'm sure your mama taught you to aim better," Shawn retorted.

"Nah, actually, it was your mama who taught me that," said Mark, smirking, "she held it for me and everything."

"Careful, Calaway," said Shawn, warningly, "Or I'll add a boot print to go along with those lipstick prints on that pasty ass of yours."

Mark looked in the mirror again. Sure enough, there were lipstick prints all over his backside.

"You should go home to Jodi like that," said Shawn, grinning broadly. Jodi was Mark's wife of two years.

"Yeah and you should go home to Theresa, smelling like perfume that's not hers," said Mark.

Theresa was Shawn's wife, whom he could be heard having shouting matches with often. He never loved her, and only married her, because he was pressured into it and had been resentful about it every since.

"Yeah, maybe I will," said Shawn, indifferently, "maybe she'll fucking get the hint and leave."

"Listen, I'm going to take a shower," said Mark, "wake up the chick I was with and pay her, I'll spot you later."

"Not a problem," said Shawn, clapping Mark on the shoulder. "I'll get rid of my broads too, while I'm at it."

After Shawn left the bathroom, Mark tested the water. When the shower was hot enough, he stepped in.

For almost a year, Mark had been working for the World Wrestling Federation. His character was The Undertaker, a stoic undead wrestler who was unaffected by pain and spoke of death and taking souls. After seven years of being stretched and hazed by veteran wrestlers, wrestling in the bowels of wrestling promotions, missing meals and a series of plain vanilla tough guy gimmicks, he'd finally found a solid bankable gimmick he could support himself and Jodi with. He was gaining clout in wrestling at a fast rate and he was only 26.

Like any other celebrity constantly on the road, the allure of the hedonistic lifestyle was all around and it wasn't hard to fall under the spell. Anything you asked for, it was there within a blink of an eye.

After Mark showered, he dried himself off and rummaged through his duffel bag. He sprayed on some cologne and then put on a black button up shirt, blue jeans and desert boots. He then slipped on a bandana, watch and sunglasses and headed downstairs to the main lobby. He hated waiting for Shawn to get ready. It was like waiting for Jodi when they were going out.

As Mark entered the lobby, he was regretting it instantly. The slightest noise made his head feel like it was coming apart. He went to sit in one of the comfortable plush chairs in the lounge where he saw a familiar face looking at him disapprovingly.

He was a portly man with dark hair and a thin mustache. He was wearing a casual suit.

"Morning, Bill," said Mark.

"Morning," said Bill, stiffly. "Have a good night?"

"Pretty sure I did," said Mark. "I blacked out for most of it, woke up not too long ago."

"I know you did," said Bill. "I've been calling you all morning. No answer."

Bill really held punctuality in high regard. He was a borderline perfectionist, just the type of guy to keep rambunctious Mark in line when needed, even thoug this drove Mark crazy sometimes.

"I've been calling you to let you know Vince requested to see you and Shawn this morning."

"Vince?" Mark repeated, "about what?"

"No idea," said Bill, "but we are to meet him at the Waffle House on Main in 15 minutes."

"15 minutes?" Mark said, aghast, "Shit!"

"Maybe this will cure you of your hard partying," said Bill. "But knowing you, that will do nothing to deter you."

Mark chuckled

"Let me go get this fool," said Mark, "be back in a few."

Sighing, Mark took the elevator up the Shawn's suite.

As he entered the suite, he heard Shawn in the shower, singing, 'Sweet Home, Alabama,' . Shawn was a dreadful singer. Mark burst through the bathroom door, just as Shawn had done to him earlier and ripped the shower curtains open, making Shawn jump out of his skin.

"What the hell!" Shawn said. "You nearly gave me heart failure!"

"Payback, asshole," said Mark, "Anyway, dry off and get dressed, we have to meet Vince soon."

"Meet Vince?" repeated Shawn? "What for?"

"Dunno," said Mark, "just get your ass out the shower and get dressed."

He handed Mark a towel

"By the way," he added, "You ought to let Lynyrd Skynyrd sing the song."

After Shawn dressed at warp speed, they hurried back to the lobby where Bill was waiting for them with his car keys in his hands.

"C'mon, we've already wasted five minutes," he said.

Mark and Shawn got in the rental car while Bill took the wheel.

The morning sun was shining incandescently over the Atlanta skyline. Even with his sunglasses on, his head pulsated painfully. He turned on the radio to distract himself from his monster headache, which seemed to be progressing.

Bill pulled into the parking lot of the Waffle House, a rectangular shaped place with large glass windows and a yellow awning. Although they were franchised, the place had a nostalgic feel about it, which they felt the three men were hit with the minute they stepped in.

The plesant smells of home cooking hit their noses. People looked up from their plates and stared at them intently as though they couldn't believe it, but Bill, Mark and Shawn were too used to this by now. They'd finally spotted who they were looking for.

He was a man in his mid 40s with dark neatly parted hair, a cleft chin and aqualine nose. under his double breasted suit was a masculine build, courtesy of hours spent in the gym. This man was Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Although he appeared on World Wrestling Federation programming as the color commentator, it was an open secret that was the owner of the promotion, having acquired it from his legendary father, Vince McMahon, Sr. before his passing. He was responsible for the wrestling boom of the 80s, buying out some of the old territories and churning out some of the biggest wrestling stars the world had ever seen.

"Two minutes late," said Vince, disapprovingly, though his wolfish grin ruined the effect. "Out being naughty boys again?"

Mark pretended to look ashamed of himself. Shawn, however, looked unabashed and said, "Yeah, you know how we get down."

"Yes, unfortunately, I do," said Vince, "But remember, don't let the high life distract you. It's lead to the destruction of many great performers."

Vince said this casually, but Mark heard the slight reprimand in his voice as well.

"So, what brings us here?" asked Bill.

"In due time, Mr. Moody," said Vince airily. "Right now, let us get sustenance."

It wasn't until Vince said that, did Mark realize how hungry he was. All that alcohol he had imbibed the previous night had also left him dehydrated. The first thing he did was order a large pitcher of water.

Minutes later, the four men were enjoying Belgian waffles, cheese n eggs, smothered hash browns, bacon, orange juice and coffee. They barely spoke to each other as they ate.

When the last strip of bacon was eaten, Mark slumped in his chair, fleeping a little sluggish from the surfeit of food he'd consumed, though feeling better than he did when he walked in. He looked at Shawn, who grinned lazily back at him. Bill was wiping bits of egg from his mustache. Vince checkled his gold Hublot watch, cleared his throat and said, "Alright, gentle, you're wondering why I've bought you here. Well, I have a preposition for you two." He indicated Mark and Shawn.

"Okay," said Mark, "concerning what?"

Vince leaned a little closer.

"There's a camp site in West Milford, New Jersey," said Vince, "called Camp Vacamas. The coordinators and current counselors are looking for four guys from the World Wrestling Federation to volunteer as special guest counselors for about six weeks with inner city teens. Bret and Curt have already volunteered their service. What say you guys?"

Mark didn't say anything. He was considering it. Shawn, however, said, "Are you kidding? You actually want me to look after little shitheads for six weeks?"

"Well, think about it, Shawn," said Bill. "This will be great PR work for you. And, also, you being an outdoors type, it would be a great experience for those children to be taught new skills, and you're the type of guy who can teach them."

"Well, I'm on board," said Mark, "I mean, I love kids, I wouldn't mind working with them. Besides it would be nice to be in a semi-structured enviroment."

"That's three on board," said Vince, happily. "What about you, Mr. Hickenbottom?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Shawn, slowly, fingering the bill on his San Antonio spurs cap. "I mean, all that responsibility..."

Mark rolled his eyes. If Shawn didn't really want to do it, he'd have said no outright. He was just being extra, because that was what Shawn did. Bill knew what Mark was thinking and smirked slightly.

"Oh all right," said Shawn finally.

"Excellent," said Vince. 'They'll be glad to hear. "I'll give them a ring, let them know you've accepted. Your first assignments are to recruit some teens who would love to sign up. You'll be going to City As High School in Manhattan."

"When do we have to go?" asked Mark.

"In a few hours," said Vince, pulling out an envelope from inside his jacket. These are two plane tickets to New York. The plane departs in about 45 minutes, don't be late. Any further questions?"

Mark and Shawn shook their heads.

"Great," said Vince. "See you gentlemen later on at tonight's tapings."

"Well, summer vacation starts in two weeks for the kids around America." said Mark as they left the Waffle House. "I haven't had a break for months. My bruises are starting to get bruises."

Though no selling made The Undertaker look indestructible, the disadvantage was that Mark couldn't cry out or look vulnerable in any way, even when he was in excruciating pain.

"I'll be able to spend time with Diane and the boys, while you're volunteering at that camp site," said Bill, joyfully. "After looking out for you, watching the boys should be a piece of cake."

"Yeah, Bill, you deserve a break from his big dead ass," said Shawn, laughing.

Mark scoffed

"If anyone needs a break from someone," he started. "I definitely need a break from you."

"Whatever," Shawn said. "Let's get this car back and make that flight."