A/N: Okay, boys and girls, this one's another collaboration with the ever-excellent Onions! I must confess that I have always wanted to write a story where the fashion world collides with the WWE. Don't ask me why; I suppose it's just a side-effect of my mental illness. :) Anyway, this little tale will basically tell the following hypothetical story: GQ does a cover story on the WWE, choosing from amongst all the wrestlers on the roster one cover model for the final issue. Hilarity ensues.
As always, WWE owns all (except Jeff Hardy, who owns himself), we own nothing.
Vincent Kennedy McMahon was a leviathan in the wrestling industry. A juggernaut. He was a muscle-ridden, wealth-burdened god.
He had a very large penis, by his own measure.
There were very few areas left that he had not already conquered.
Vince sat at his highly-polished wooden desk, carefully regarding a thin, very attractive, straight-backed woman in her middle years. He considered that he would have no chance at conquering her, not in a million years. The very thought of even possibly getting that one near his bed made him grin stupidly, a tiny dribble of drool wetting his cracked lips.
Her brows drew down in annoyance as she watched his change of expression, and she cleared her throat loudly, hoping he would understand this not-so-subtle hint to move things along.
"I am a very busy woman, Mr. McMahon", she said, "Can we please get to the point of this meeting?"
McMahon smiled wolfishly. "Of course, Katarina. Whatever you want." She rolled her eyes. McMahon shifted uncomfortably in his leather-upholstered chair when he noted her annoyance. A loud and distinct farting noise from the friction of his ass on the chair rang out clearly and distinctly in the quiet room. The woman's eyes widened.
"Sorry", muttered McMahon sheepishly, "it was the damn chair."
She released an angry puff of air, raising one impeccably-groomed eyebrow. "Let us get to it, then", she said, "We have a mutual interest in the possibility of showcasing your company in my magazine."
Vince nodded his head excitedly.
"Well, then", she said, a cold smirk coming to her porcelain features, "We shall discuss terms."
Vince grinned back at her. Negotiating terms was his favorite thing to do. Katarina was one tough customer, but he preferred it that way. This would be fun.
Yup, his wrestlers would be prancing around in front of her cameras in no time. He shifted again, being careful to silence the farting chair as he did so.
It let out a poof anyway.
He had to call Stephanie. She always got him the best office stuff. It was time for a god damn replacement.
* * * * * * *
"So, whaddya think, guys?", Matt asked excitedly, gesturing proudly down to the prototype for his new wrestling pants.
Jeff, Adam, Jay, Hunter, and the Undertaker all stood watching the giddy Hardy boy, their expressions ranging from amusement to full-on horror. Matt didn't seem to notice, or to care, about their reactions, however. He seemed proud of his new outfit, which he had conceived entirely himself.
Matt's grand design idea began with red and white checkered fabric, similar in appearance to a Walmart-bought picnic tablecloth. Sewn into the knees were stark, bright yellow patches, the color of fresh urine. On the upper part of each outer thigh, tassles made of lime-green rubber hung freely. Matt liked how they struck his butt and balls when he walked. There were obvious squares of padding sewn into each cheek of the buttocks, to give the older Hardy the rounder, fuller ass he'd always desired. In truth, it simply made him look fat.
The boots were the piece de resistance of the entire affair, with shiny red pleather, and lime-green polka dots scattered all about their surface. White laces finished off the affair, criss-crossing up from ankle to knee.
The group stared as Matt excitedly pointed out stand-out features of his new look. Edge stood, mouth agape, large eyes even wider than normal, feeling dizzy and sick from the clashing colors in Matt's garish new outfit. If Hardy didn't stop moving around, he might not be able to stop himself from blowing chunks all over his brand new threads!
Christian exchanged a concerned look with Jeff, wondering if Matt had finally lost his mind. The younger Hardy, however, appeared used to it.
Hunter thought Matt's sense of fashionable ring attire was hilarious. He practically shit himself, he laughed so hard.
Taker couldn't have given a shit about any of this. As Matt prattled on, he picked at a stubborn wedgie that had been plaguing him for the past hour and a half.
Jeff shook his head in utter embarrassment, refusing to watch anymore.
When no one said anything, Matt prodded, "Well, come on guys, what do you think?" Silence. "I think these colors'll really pop on TV!"
"It looks like ya popped 'em right out of your ass", Taker muttered under his breath.
Matt turned to his brother, shivering happily when one of the tassles rubbed up against his taint. "Jeff?", he asked, a hopeful tone in his normally stoic voice.
Jeff shook his head. "Your pants look like ass, Matty", he said, "They look like they were designed by blind, retarded monkeys."
"Oooooh, damn, Jeff!", said Edge, who was leaning heavily on Jay to prevent his vertigo from overtaking him.
A small tear fell down the older Hardy's smooth cheek.
"I'm sorry, Matty", said Jeff, "I just don't want you to embarrass yourself."
"Well, FUCK YOU!", Matt cried, "I'm wearing these on TV tonight! And I'll bet you the fans will fucking love them!"
With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
"Thank god", growled Taker, "Can I leave now?"
Hunter raised a fuzzy blonde eyebrow. "Why the hell are you here anyway?"
"Good point", Taker replied. He was already out the door.
Jeff, meanwhile, was tearing at his colorful hair, frustration evident on his face.
"Guys", he pleaded, "you've gotta help me with him! He can't go out there wearing that abomination. They'll laugh him out of the state!"
Hunter shrugged. "Sorry, Jeffro. I just don't care enough to get involved. Thanks for the entertainment, though."
He patted the younger man on the shoulder, and walked away, chuckling.
Jeff looked to Adam and Jay, wild desperation in his eyes.
"Uh, um, yeah, I think we're due in the gym", stammered Jay, backing towards the door.
Adam nearly tripped over his Canadian buddy in his haste to reach the exit. "Uh, yeah, Jeff, sorry, but I think you're on your own. Good luck!"
The door closed, leaving Jeff alone with his dark and terrible thoughts.
If Matt truly had made up his mind to wear his clownish pants on television that night, Jeff didn't think there was anything he could do to stop him. He knew he had to try, though.
He made his way slowly and dejectedly out of the room.
The younger Hardy sighed. He wished his brother wasn't such a tool.
* * * * * * *
Matt walked with determination towards the gorilla position, an angry scowl set upon his face. He ignored the stares of his co-workers, keeping his gaze firmly ahead.
"Fabulous pants, Hardy!", Hornswoggle called, snickering. The little man sat casually perched on top of a crate of athletic supporters.
"Fuck you, leprechaun!", Matt shot back, flipping him the bird as he passed.
He ignored the snickers and whispered jibes that met his ears as he moved through the backstage area. He concentrated on the caress of the rubber tassles on his ball sac, and thought about his impending glory.
"Matt! Matt, wait!" Jeff ran down the long hall, huffing and puffing, trying desperately to catch up with his brother. Matt didn't slow. "God dammit Matt, wait up!" The younger Hardy finally managed to reach him. "Big bro, please don't go out there!", Jeff pleaded, tears in his eyes, " The audience won't… won't understand what you are trying to portray!" He paused for dramatic effect, ignoring Matt's glare. "I get it! I understand, as I am an artist. But they are cruel and fickle. That audience will eat you alive!"
Matt hunkered down, preparing himself for his glorious entrance. The producer gave him the 5 second warning, and he heard his music hit out in the arena. The older Hardy looked peacefully over at his brother and said, "Jeff, I appreciate your concern, but…" He turned towards the ramp and began to run. "I've got to be MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"
He disappeared through the curtain, and into the packed house.
Matt felt the rush of heat from the lights, and stank breath from the audience. He pumped his fist to the beat of his music, pausing at the top of the ramp, tassles swinging back and forth.
A great hush fell over the arena.
"HOO HOO!", an Arkansas-accented drunk suddenly yelled from deep within the crowd, "MATT HARDY'S GONE GAY!!!!"
Laughter erupted throughout the arena. Matt stood still, his toothy grin quickly fading. One single tear fell slowly down his cheek, much like the Native American who told us not to litter in that commercial. It was a sad sight to behold.
That night, after his match, he destroyed the pants he'd earlier been so proud of. He was sad, but he knew he'd be able to make himself feel better by sucking down a shitload of alcohol.
While sitting in a bar, he pulled out his phone and began to tweet, feeling the need to unburden himself.
I destroyed my pants, everyone. Are you fucking happy?
1:11am From Mobile Phone
Jeff just farted.
1:34am From Mobile Phone
Damn, I look good! - /jk1fx
1:48am From Mobile Phone
Ballin'!
1:50am From Mobile Phone
Jeff's getting annoyed. He wants to go home. I want more beeer.
2:01am From Mobile Phone
Think I lehft something stale in the shitter. Ooops. HA!
2:11am From Mobile Phone
Hey, HurricaneHelms KimoBrand… you lyked my pants, right?!
2:21am From Mobile Phone
I just tryed to pick uhp a girl, but sheee told mi to fuck off. Shee was uhgly anyway.
2:46am From Mobile Phone
Jeff lehft me behind. Heee's asshole.
3:15am From Mobile Phone
Y'all hate mee. Y hate mmi pants,
4:01am From Mobile Phone
The next evening, Matt woke up. The first thing he did was throw up. The next thing he did was throw up.
When he remembered his deceased fashion experiment he wept.
The pants had been innocent. They hadn't deserved to die.
This story will be a carnival of retardedness! Wrestlers fighting for the chance to pose on the cover of GQ magazine. What else could one ask for in a fanfic? (Besides an intelligent plot, well thought-out characterization, and readability, that is.) I can promise you none of these things in this story. So, if you're not scared off yet, read on! The fun is only beginning! ;)
