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(-Malenko's writer)
Fucking Sin.
Again.
Now, Randy remembers very well the private discussion he had with Vince in the office, hours after the lights went down on this past RAW where Daniel Bryan was attacked by The Shield as Randy and the McMahon Family and Triple H stood in the ring.
Vince had told Randy that it was -his- idea to crown Randy champ this time.
And that Paul was on a serious powertrip.
And that, as fucked up as it sounds, it's true. Paul's not -really- Randy's friend.
That had hurt, but Randy had suspected it for awhile.
It also came out that Randy's second Wellness Strike was one that Paul himself oversaw. Sent Randy's labs back for a 'closer look', if you will. That was Triple H's way of using corporate power to keep Randy "in line."
Whereas Randy had been mentored by Triple H, Randy had considered him a personal friend. In the same vein, Randy had mentored Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase and they're more like his -brothers- than his -friends-. But it was a mistake on Randy's part to not see Triple H as the cold-blooded, calculated motherfucker he truly is.
Vince's approval means the world to Randy. Vince knows that. So that private talk went a long way.
And everybody knows who went clear down to Mexico to go recruit Sin. Yep, that would be Paul again. The same one who'd hired the disaster that Kharma turned out to be...which was a damned shame because she really could have brought the Divas Division to new heights had she not had her issues.
Randy had tried when Sin first got hired (you know, those 5 minutes before Sin's first Wellness Strike) to be cool with him, even going sightseeing with him and a group overseas. But it was awkward as fuck when you're with a guy who knows NO English and is just pointing at shit.
Oh, and wearing a mask.
Anyway. The X that got thrown on TV? Legit. Del Rio disregarding the fucking X? Legit. Okay, at the first glance at the monitor, the boys in the back were going, "Holy shit." It did look initially like Sin's wrist might've broken.
But you know what?
Vince cut promos with multiple quad tears.
Hunter tore his Quad and still made Jericho perform the Walls to finish the match properly.
Randy's collarbone had broken in a match and he finished.
A dislocated -finger-. Are you fucking serious. Cry to the ref and get an X thrown for that. Seriously. So Del Rio had lost his cool in front of the cameras some. (Del Rio was also wearing the marks of a very unscripted, very real jump he'd suffered at a hotel, where Mac Intyre actually had to help fend the dudes off.) Randy wasn't about to judge Del Rio for losing his cool on TV...he'd done it himself, a la Kofi "STUPID! STUPID! YOU FUCKIN' DUMMY!"
But here's the thing. Del Rio's generated himself some heat backstage from time to time. Some guys were just giving no fucks. Randy stood there in his gear (No, not his suit but yes, with the belt, because he was afraid some asshole would try to rib and take it) watching, and did give a fuck.
Vince had said that unless Randy -wanted- to step up once more as a locker room leader, it wasn't necessary.
Hunter had told Randy to watch his ass.
Vince had told Randy to watch his ass, too.
"You should be carin' about what you see on that monitor," he'd said to some of the younger roster. "Bret Hart dislocated 4 fingers in a match. He went under the bottom rope, jumped off the apron, popped 'em back in, and got back in there. NECKS have been broken. Anybody who wants to pussy out for a finger in a match...go tell Malenko that. Go tell him now. Enough NXT guys waiting to come up to take spots."
Randy shook his head as Sin was brought past them and to the trainer. Del Rio came in shortly thereafter and it was -Randy- who extended his hand to shake Alberto's.
"I'da done the same thing. Not sure if you wanted to hear that or not," he said with a sardonic smirk.
Dean Malenko was standing somewhere closer to the shadows, which might sound creepy as fuck but it wasn't because the lighting back here blows. The big money in the lighting in this company is in the Titantrons, the entrances, the pyro. Not back here in the locker room. Everybody, even the too-tanned-talent, was a shade of green under these cheap ass lights. Even Titus O'Neill, who sort of nodded his head, Dean noticed, to what Randy had to say.
Dean's quiet. He watches when nobody thinks he does. He does have a wicked sense of humor as seen in Japan when one of Orton's closer buddies on the roster got into a bit of a bitchfit over some broad with another guy on the roster, and Dean texted Orton to take care of it rather than take care of it himself in his capacity as a road agent.
Wanna know why Dean texted Orton rather than intervene?
Because anything Dean intervenes in, he has a duty to report to the front office.
So he'll listen more than talk. If he comes to you and says something, you better listen. This man knows his shit.
But to hear his name out of -Orton's- mouth, advising the indifferent to come see him? Dean knew that threat when he heard it and inwardly, he smiled. He'd known Orton had something special, something not seen since Bob Sr. was here. (No, not Randy's father. His grandfather.) It just took digging through a lot of coal to find the diamond. There was a mix of disgust and wising up among the roster who were within Orton's earshot when he'd said "Go tell Malenko that."
Because that was code for, "Get the fuck out."
Dean liked it. He just continued to listen.
To Randy's credit, he didn't know Dean -was- there when he said it. He'd just, well, been himself. That 'natural leader' shit, which Randy had always attributed to a more-or-less broken brain-to-mouth filter.
He would've said it if he -had- known Dean was there, but he wasn't showing off or anything. He'd meant it. And he didn't care who heard. It was the truth. And speaking of Truth, good on Ron Killings for publicly agreeing with Randy as well. A few guys -did-.
You can bet your candy asses that Dean's watching, pretty much like a hawk, to each and every reaction from all the guys in his range of vision. His brain's recording who's blowing off what Orton said. You can bet he's calculating strengths and weaknesses, and you can bet he's doing his fucking job.
Although the lighting here, as well as the food, blows. Blows fucking -goats-. And not 'goats' as in Greatest Of All Time or Daniel Bryan-style goats. We're talking baa-aaaa motherfuckers. Green lighting on some green and not-so-green talent. Who needs this shit?
Well, Dean does. He lives for this shit. Move.