Disclaimer: Neither author owns anything affiliated with WWE.
A/N: This story is more of a shits-and-giggles kind of thing. Any and all flames against our pairings that we've chosen will be ignored. This fiction will also contain violence (of course), yaoi pairings, and harsh language.
Also: Literal translations of foreign phrases are going to be used in this story. If there's something wrong with the translation, please let us know!
Takes place during the 9/26/11 episode of Monday Night RAW's match between John Cena and Christian and will continue from that point.
"You look like a clown!" the heavily accented voice of Alberto Rodriguez came over the microphone system.
"I look like a clown? You're half-naked!" the thick voiced complaint of Phil Brooks argued. "Thanks for dressing for the job," he muttered darkly.
All the commentators at the table went back to watching match that was unfolding in the wrestling ring. Comments on the goings-on were thrown around as the match continued. Soon the topic of the upcoming Pay-Per-View match, Hell in a Cell, was brought up once again in the rapid conversation.
"It doesn' matter if I haven' been in the Cell before," Alberto bit out at Phil's blatant verbal attack. "I'm still gonna kick your butt." He would have said more, provocative, insults but since it was a program for "PG" audiences, he bit back on the vulgarity.
"Kick my butt?" Phil muttered again, half distracted by the fight scene before him, and half distracted by Alberto's insults. Though he knew that the conversation needed to be kept clean, he couldn't help but think that Alberto sounded a bit childish.
As the match continued to heat up, the commentators discussed the previous Hell in a Cell match Phil participated in and the inexperience of Alberto.
"The hell is for this bunk," He gestured toward Phil, "And that clown John Cena," the Mexican aristocrat spit out as the insults continued to flow from his rival's mouth.
"Did he just say 'bunk'?" someone whispered into the microphone.
"I think he meant bum," someone else answered.
"Who cares?" Phil responded, watching Christian slide from under the ropes of the ring in order to get away from Cena, "He sounds like he has marbles in his mouth any—"
Causing much chaos and confusion, as well as interrupting Phil's offensive statement, Christian was suddenly slugged across the face by Cena (who had followed him out of the ring). The blonde's body fell roughly against the announcer's table, knocking everything off of it, including Phil's soda.
Livid that, yet again, his drink had been spilled, the Straight-Edge Savior glared at the offender. Forgetting the animosity he had felt toward Alberto, he said, "AGAIN? You spilled my drink again!"
John merely looked annoyed at the statement, thinking the tantrum was rather childish in comparison to the current issue that he himself had caused.
Before anymore words could be exchanged, however, Alberto broke up the stare-down with a swift punch to the side of the unguarded Phil. The strike caused the shorter man to fall to the floor, and the assailant took the opportunity to jump into the ring with Christian and Cena.
Enraged at being so roughly assaulted while his guard was down, Phil picked himself off of the ground with the full intent on payback. He charged forward furiously and practically dove under the ropes, but was too slow. Alberto had noticed the smaller man's abrupt appearance and made a quick escape out of the other side of the ring, leaving the offended man to stare in disbelief, hanging onto the ropes.
After Alberto's departing speech, which was taken more as a threat than anything else, Phil stormed backstage as the show cut to commercial muttering every obscenity he could think of as he clutched his announcer's jacket. All the tension he felt had nothing to do with the show or his upcoming match; the man that he would be going up against here shortly was his real problem.
Their particular situation had slowly spiraled out of control ever since Alberto had traded in his Money in the Bank suitcase. However, even before then the issues and tension between the two superstars had been building on a personal level.
The Second City Savoir had worked his ass off to obtain and keep the WWE Champion title, only to have it taken by Alberto, whom he had been very close with. Of course Phil couldn't exactly blame the other man, since he—himself—had done it twice. However, the fact remained that the pivotal moment had driven an even bigger wedge in their relationship. It was at that point that The Best in the World superstar had decided to split ways and focus more on his upcoming matches and future storylines than trying to stay friendly with his now-enemy.
Obviously, the split did not bode well with the Aristocrat, the recent unexpected drama being a prime example of the animosity each man felt toward each other. Anger dangerously flared once more as Phil trudged down the main corridor of the arena's backstage area, taking special care to try and avoid any and all people who come up to him.
Naturally, they were rather curious as to how he was going to deal Alberto's assault. Of course, the Voice of the Voiceless bit back with nothing more than a "Watch the damn match and you'll find out."
He approached a corner at the end of the corridor, which split into two opposite directions, hoping that the next would grant him the solitude he so craved. He needed to come up with a game plan for how he was going to exact his revenge without any distractions.
Unfortunately, this was not so. As he chose to turn right, his eyes locked on the very last person he needed to see: Alberto himself, along with his ring announcer, Ricardo Rodriguez. Phil involuntarily dipped out of the two others' line of sight, fighting back the urge to go on ahead and just attack. Though he hated the thought of hiding, he figured the best sort of revenge would be to put the bastard to shame in front of millions of viewers, rather than in private.
He looked behind the corner. Neither men had moved, but seemed to be talking rapidly in Spanish. Any other time, the strange, flowing, energetic words would have been rather attractive (as is the tall, tanned man speaking them); now, however, all he could do was look on in sheer loathing.
"Usted sabe que el señor Brooks no tendrá su asalto a él a la ligera," Ricardo said, looking rather nervously up at Alberto, as if trying to be careful of his words, "Él va a tratar de ser embarazoso."
"Of course," Phil muttered under his breath. He had a feeling that they had to have been talking about him, now he knew it since his name was mentioned.
"Él sabe que no puede ganar contra mí," Alberto replied confidently, "Voy a aplastar el culo escuálido en el lienzo."
Having heard enough gibberish, Phil gave up eavesdropping and angrily rounded the left corner. He had at least hoped to hear any covert plans that Alberto had for the match; he should have known, however, that the Aristocrat was too crafty to divulge his plans in English, where he could be understood.
As he walked, he was sure this direction had a few staff-oriented rooms, which meant that he was almost guaranteed quiet. He found a room empty of any coliseum staff; judging from its interior, it seemed to be some sort of break room.
Finding a spot to sit, he was finally able to recollect his thoughts. It was no lie that Alberto was quite the aggressive fighter, specializing in holds and throws to gain the upper hand. Because of his—Phil's—own fighting style (using limb-strikes and submissive maneuvers), it was very hard to compare the two very different fighting styles.
He propped his elbow on the table and held his chin in his palm, staring absently at the white refrigerator directly ahead of him. He had so much on his mind already, what with past events, as well as the day's events. He found himself almost regretting starting anything with Alberto…almost.
"Dammit!" Phil cursed, slamming his fist upon the table, almost hitting a nearly-dried catsup stain left behind by the room's previous occupant, "I need to focus on the match, not sentimentality."
His eyes had never left the spot they chose to linger on, which gave him an idea. He thought that if he perhaps got himself something to eat real fast, his mind would be clearer. After all, he hadn't eaten in hours.
He strode over to the refrigerator and opened it; he scowled at the lone, half-empty bottle of orange soda then closed the door. He gave the freezer a try, only to find that there was nothing but two half-filled ice trays inside.
Pushing the trays aside, he couldn't help but smile at the sheer luck that had fallen over him. Behind them, he had found a single box holding the very ice cream bar that he had requested the return of a month before.
Upon withdrawing the small box from the freezer, his face fell slightly. On the box's cover was none other than John Cena. Why him? he thought.
"Oh well," He said, tearing the box open, "Beggers can't be choosers." He withdrew the bar, barely taking taking notice of the figure stamped on the vanilla cookie wafer's side, and bit down.
"Hey, you!" Came a loud, sharp barking voice that startled Phil so horribly, he nearly dropped the ice cream, fumbling it in his hands.
"—The fuck?" He whipped around, ready to bust the face of whoever decided to ruin his moment of bliss. He found himself facing Stephen Farrelly, the last man he'd expect to confront him.
"How did you find me here? What do you want?" The Straight Edge Savior demanded, not bothering to mask his displeasure.
"I'm not lookin' for you," Stephen responded, voice thick from his Irish accent, as if the notion were absurd, "I'm lookin' for that, 'cause it's mine."
"Yours?" Phil replied with a small laugh, "Oh well, finders' keepers!" He ended his statement by running his tongue along the bar's length, "I'm sure you don't want it now, do you?"
The taller man folded his arms across his broad chest, "You strive to make yourself out to be a real bastard, don' you? Tha' was my last one I was saving, y'know. 'Swhy I hid it."
"Oh, well! How sad for you that you'll have to miss out." The dark-haired man laughed once more, followed by taking another bite. He had no idea why he chose to tease someone whom he had never really had an issue with, but that didn't mean it wasn't amusing.
Stephen, however, was rather confused about the actions of the man before him. He knew that Phil was notorious for his little games, but he figured it was all an act. He himself could usually take insults with a grain of salt, but he just so happened to not be in the best of moods, and this guy's antics weren't helping.
"Just gonna stand there and watch?"
The words broke the Celtic Warrior from his reverie, but he was soon able to gather his thoughts rather quickly. "No," He said, "I'm gonna take back what's mine."
Phil's lips upturned into a sort of smile, very much amused by Stephen's nerve. "Do it," He said lowly, daring the taller man to try and come for him. Once more, his tongue snaked the length of the bar, this time on the side exposing the vanilla ice cream between the two wafers.
Stephen's blood boiled at the suggestive, brazen behavior and something snapped inside of him. He lunged forward and gripped Phil by the shoulders, backing him up against the refrigerator. The poor machinery groaned under the sudden pressure and tilted back slightly.
The younger man used his free hand to press against the older's shirted chest, countering the pressure of the body trying to push him against the unsteady refrigerator. He looked up at his aggressor, glaring insolently into blue eyes.
"Fuair mé rud éigin cosúil mé níos fearr a," Stephen muttered fluidly in Irish. He bent down slightly, mouth spreading into a grin before pressing them against the other's.
Phil couldn't believe what was happening, and now he was the one who was confused. He initially made a noise of protest and tried to shove the taller man off of him, using both his hands and managing to get melted ice cream on the black shirt. The act however drove him further onto the fridge, and it threatened to tilt once more.
Instead of taking the hint, the Warrior pressed more assertively, letting his tongue slide through the other man's lips, brushing against the lip ring. Phil's body tensed involuntarily at the intrusion, however, and broad hands gripped his shoulders more firmly. He did not expect this sort of behavior, but he found himself relaxing slowly, somewhat reluctantly allowing Stephen's tongue all the way into his mouth. He let his arms slip over broad shoulders, the ice cream he had nearly forgot he had dangling and melting dangerously onto the taller man's back.
Stephen had only just enough time to enjoy the slightly cool feeling of Phil's mouth, as well as the taste of sugar remnants before his ears picked up the sounds of echoing footsteps from the hall beyond. The Straight Edge Savior seemed also to pick up on the noise and successfully managed to push the older man off of him just as the owner of the footsteps came in.
A thin, mousy stage-hand stood in the doorway, looking at the heavily-melting ice cream in Phil's hand, then to the stains on Stephen's shirt.
"What?" Phil said, glaring at the intruder.
"I was asked to come get you," The boy said, "You're on in, like, a minute."
"Are you fucking serious?" the stage-hand's quarry shouted, followed by an accusatory glare at his distraction, "Here!" He pressed the runny food into Stephen's hands, and walked after the stage-hand.
The deserted man could only stare blankly at the doorway, ignoring the dripping substance in his own hands, mind still reeling over what had happened mere moments ago. He honestly couldn't figure out what had gotten into him.
Meanwhile, Phil strode down the hallway, ducking quickly into a bathroom to wash his hands and face free of ice cream and to hopefully clear his mind for the match. He knew he was to win the match, but he always made sure to put on the best performance possible for the audience. Of course he knew his opponent, Alberto, was in the same mind set and they always did their best to make a great show but that was before things had gone south between them.
He slicked his hands through his hair, out of nerves and habit, as he continued down the hall. As he neared the entrance to the main stage, he heard his song play loudly throughout the arena and he jogged towards the entrance. The cheering crowd was already deafening and as he entered the arena area he did his usually entry, however, upon seeing Alberto in the ring waiting for him Phil felt all the hatred flow back into him. As he approached the ring, he yelled up at his fighting partner hoping to get the aggression and tension between them thicker than it already was.
When he slipped into the ring, he noticed Alberto's back was to him and went to charge him but the referee held him back. He had gotten the attention he wanted, though. Alberto was now facing him, and he continued to throw insults at the Mexican. Unfortunately it didn't last long as the ref pushed him back and berated him. Phil brushed the man's words aside and stripped his shirt, throwing it over the rope before Alberto tossed his scarf in the same direction.
The match soon started, and as he heard the name John Cena cut through the air, a wave of frustration shot through him. Using the fuel he quickly took control of the fight and easily defended against the few attacks Alberto put up all while giving his best offense. He finally gained complete control of the match, throwing the larger man through the rope and onto the ground. Climbing through the ropes himself, he prepared himself for the elbow drop he was about to execute and take the fight to the ground for a bit. Once on the ground, he picked Alberto up so he could knee him the stomach.
The impact sent the taller man reeling towards the commentator's desk, and Phil was quick to pull the man back towards the ring.
However, before pushing his opponent back into the ring, he quickly turned and threw the man at Cena. In a way, it was the WWE Champion's fault for all the stress and tension that he had been going through lately, and it felt good getting a jab in any way he could.
Before going to retrieve Alberto, Phil sarcastically saluted Cena as he was now standing and seemingly preparing for an attack.
The match continued on much the same, with the same tension and fueling of frustration. After Phil had pinned Alberto and won, the cage that had been dangling above their heads slowly started to lower. The Second City Savoir clenched his teeth as Cena made his way towards the lowering cage, trapping Alberto's man-servant, making escape impossible.
Once the cage was completely lowered, the two superstar wrestlers proceeded to take turns picking on Ricardo. They took great joy in punting the well-dressed fellow across the ring, taking advantage of his vulnerability.
The fun was short-lived, lasting until Alberto reappeared with a chair in hand. He wreaked havoc upon the other two men until the cage was eventually lifted back up. The Mexican Aristocrat escaped muttering Spanish under his breath as the other two men in the ring writhed and moaned in pain.
After the show went off-air, Phil pulled his aching body off of the mat. Thoughts began to occupy his mind once again as he headed backstage, ready for a shower and relax for what little time he could find. He was still completely confused over what had happened in the break room for several reasons. The main reason for his confusion, however, was that he knew Stephen and Mike Mizanin were in a relationship. This bit of knowledge begged the question: why was the Celtic Warrior coming onto him?
He quickly banished the thought as he continued down the crowded hallway. It wasn't his problem if Stephen was cheating, or rather why he was doing it. The only problem he should have with the issue was if he would pursue it or let it happen again. He had to admit that he was quite intrigued by the taller man's advances, but he wasn't really looking for more trouble than he already had. Perhaps what he really needed to do was find Stephen and figure what just what the hell was going on.
Deciding he needed a quick shower to get the smell of sweat off him, Phil headed towards the shower area before making his way back into the locker room portion. Later, with only a towel wrapped his waist, he moved over to his chosen locker and started getting dressed while ignoring the other men in the room. That was until Stephen walked into the room—the man already dressed in his casual wear. Phil was a bit surprised when the man sat down on the bench a few feet away from him. Hazel eyes met blue before he pulled the shirt over his head.
"I was wonderin'," Stephen started a bit slowly, his hands clasping together, "if ya'd like t'go out."
"Out?" Phil repeated in surprise at the abruptness of the question. He and Stephen were not on bad terms by any means, they've just never considered each other friends; now the guy was giving out surprise make-out sessions and dates. Still Stephen couldn't be discredited yet; the intentions might be more innocent than just previously thought.
"Where to?" Phil asked with an obvious tone of suspicion.
The Irish man looked back up at the question and shrugged, unaffected by the younger man's biting tone, "Wherever y' want."
"Well, I-," Phil started, looking away from the anticipating stare of the man next to him. Suddenly, a rather loud sneeze took his attention. His gaze was met with none other than Alberto himself. The air seemed to be electrified with tension; how much had he heard? How would he take Stephen's offer? The Straight-Edger didn't want to see the drama that would unfold if he decided to answer "yes", and Alberto was quite notorious for being dramatic.
Remembering that he indeed didn't answer Stephen's question, he turned to the man and quickly said, "I'll have to think about it."
Stephen looked a bit put off, but then nodded his understanding. It was quite obvious that now was not the time, anyhow. Phil's eyes lingered on the retreating body for a moment before turning back to the scowling man he was previously conversing with.
"I don' like him," Alberto grumbled moodily, "He's weird and talks funny."
"You are weird and talk funny," Phil replied nonchalantly as he turned back to what he was doing before Stephen had appeared, "Like I give a shit about your opinion anyway."
The taller man huffed. "What a surprise," he laughed out sarcastically. "This mal criado cares for only himself."
A long suffering sigh escaped Phil's lips as a hand rose to rub at his forehead. He really didn't want to get into an altercation with all the prying eyes and ears, but he knew Alberto wasn't one to back down. "Well you certainly seem to have your information correct. So why don't you just leave me the fuck alone."
"¿Por qué no te vas a saltar a un río desde un puente alto?" Alberto shouted after Phil, who was pointedly ignoring him and leaving the crowded room with his belongings gathered in his arms, "You didn' even win!" He called in a final attempt to gain attention.
Phil stormed down the halls in a worse mood than ever. He very much wanted to go back into that room and deck the shit out of Alberto, but he felt that there needn't be anymore drama between them until their next fight. He had heard the Aristocrat's last sentence, and he honestly didn't feel like being reminded of his loss.
He stepped through the doors that led to the secluded parking lot for the wrestlers and employees. He walked across the pavement and to his own rental car and placed the objects in his hands inside the back. He rose up to shut the door and move on to open the driver's side door when he had spotted someone a few cars down.
"Shit," He swore, recognizing the figure as Stephen. Remembering the question he needed to answer, he shut the door and walked briskly over to where the taller man stood.
He tapped Stephen on the shoulder, startling him. The tall form wheeled around, fist ready to fly when he noticed the person requesting his attention. "Sorry 'bout that, fella," He said, laughing ruefully.
Phil was lifting his hands up in an attempt to block, but upon hearing the apology he chuckled. "I wouldn't blame you," A genuine smile was spread across his features, "Because I'd have done the same thing." After all, he knew how much of a pain fans and staffers could be.
"T'be honest, I wasn't expectin' you," The taller man responded; though the tone was pleasant, Phil couldn't help the miniscule pang of guilt he felt for nearly brushing the man off.
"Almost slipped my mind that I was supposed to meet you in the first place, no thanks to…"The shorter man brushed off the end of his sentence with a wave of his hand, "Doesn't matter. Anyway, did you still want to do something? Or have you changed your mind?"
Blue eyes widened a bit. "Sure, I'm still up for it. Do y'have a place in mind?"
Because the Sprint Center was in Missouri's Power and Light district, they decided to walk to wherever they chose to go, instead of driving.
"Nope," he answered simply. "We could walk around the district, that way we don't have to worry about driving anywhere."
Stephen took a minute to think it over before answering, "Alright."
The two men headed towards the exit of the parking garage to get out into the night air. Regardless that it was a Monday night, the Power and Light District of Kansas City, Missouri was brightly lit and bustling with tourists. The pair easily slipped into the crowd without being noticed and crossed to the street lined with bright lights, bars and expensive restaurants.
Phil stole a glance over at the man walking next to him. They hadn't spoken much since they've started walking together, and frankly, he was surprised that Stephen didn't bring up earlier yet. He didn't know if Stephen had thought about the encounter any, but he himself sure had. He wanted to clear the air, because he had to know what was running through the Celtic Warrior's mind, if anything at all.
"So, Stephen," He began a little awkwardly, nearly running into the taller man in an attempt to dodge a passerby who was walking in the opposite direction, "About earlier, in the break room…what was that?" He looked over once more, to see if his question had been heard.
"I wanted to," Stephen replied plainly, "Y'took somethin' of mine, so I decided to take somethin' of yours."
"But that doesn't make—you wanted to?" The younger man stammered, clearly confused by the other's response.
"You weren't complainin' before, and to be honest, I liked this meet much better than the last one we had."
"Last one…?" Phil had to take a moment to recall what Stephen was talking about, "You don't mean that whole thing about Cena being a jack-ass to you, do you?"
"Ar, that's the one," The Warrior replied. He drew himself up proudly and said, "It's good to be king."
The Straight-Edger chuckled lightly at the last remark; the whole king scenario was rather silly, after all. "If you don't mind me asking," He began, "Weren't you talking to Mike?"
"Bah, forget about 'im," Stephen said dismissively, "He's like a child, anyhow, what with 'im gettin' fired an' all."
The shorter man nodded, knowing exactly what Stephen was talking about. He'd known Mike for a good five years and considered the man a friend. "So," Phil started up again, "what happened earlier was just payback?" he asked curiously.
Stephen looked over at the shorter man curiously. "Do y'want to be more? You and that Alberto fella are on the outs, if I'm not mistaken."
An eyebrow cocked as a smile passed over Phil's lips, his lip ring gleaming in the lights. "I should warn you that 'Berto has a bit of a possessive streak." The statement only seemed to make Stephen laugh rather smugly.
"I'm not scared of tha' man," He said, "Or anyone else for tha' matter."
As the pair came to an almost standstill, their laughter was interrupted with a tap on the shoulder. Stephen turned around to meet the face of a younger-looking woman with goldenrod colored hair.
"Aren't you…that wrestler dude?" She asked, stifling a giggle.
Stephen and Phil shared a brief glance that could only be interpreted as one thing: oh joy, fans. Still, they couldn't be out-right rude to her, well Stephen couldn't; Phil on the other hand, couldn't care less, considering he already had a reputation for being quite the jerk at Starbucks.
"Yeah, one of 'em," The taller man responded, smiling awkwardly. He stuck his hand out, "Sheamus," He said shaking the woman's hand.
"I thought so!" The blonde said excitedly. To Phil's displeasure, she faced him, "And you're that straight-edge guy, right?"
"I am," Phil replied curtly, annoyed at being called "some guy" and not by his name. He placed an arm around Stephen's shoulders, "And we're very busy and must get going," He wheeled the taller man around, leaving the blonde severely disappointed, and they continued walking in the direction they were going previously. His hand slid down from the shoulders, thoughtlessly brushing against the toned muscles with his fingertips.
They walked the entire block, thankfully without any more encounters with star-struck fans. The leisure amble down the multicolored street seemed to last ages as they talked about WWE politics, old matches and wrestlers, and a bit about personal life. Eventually, they found themselves back at the Sprint Center, where they first began.
Both men stood awkwardly beside Stephen's car, each waiting for the other to speak, or act, first.
Stephen was first to speak up, "I guess I'll see y'Sunday, then?" He asked, shifting his weight from one leg to the next.
"Yeah, I believe so," Phil replied, smoothing a hand over his sleek hair. A thought struck him, and he couldn't help but let out a laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"I meant to ask you, why are you still wearing this here?" He reached out and took into his hands the huge, gleaming cross-shaped charm that usually Stephen wore with his wrestling gear, "You look kind of ridiculous walking around with it on."
"Oh!" Stephen responded, looking down, "I s'pose I forgot tha' I had it on."
"I don't see how you could forget you're wearing a gaudy thing like this," Phil said quietly as he turned the cross in his hand, twisting the heavy chain it was hooked onto, "But I suppose if you're so used to wearing it anyway…"
He let his sentence die out and looked up at the man before him; no more words were shared between them. They were aware of their closeness, but neither seemed to mind. In a daring act, Phil tugged the chain, drawing its owner nearer to him. As if they had planned it all along, their lips met for the second time that day. This time, however, there was no hesitation; their mouths opened, but didn't separate, allowing their tongues to meet.
As their fluid, natural high-inducing movements intensified, Stephen's heavily-muscled arms circled around the younger man's waist, pulling the body as close to his as possible. Phil, however, knew that there was a chance that things between them might progress entirely too quickly, and he still didn't know Stephen well enough to roll around under the sheets with him. He then slowed his actions and eventually pulled away, not wanting the end to be abrupt, so as to save from things being anymore awkward than they already were.
"I believe we're even now," he said, wiping a bit of either his or Stephen's, he didn't know, saliva from his mouth. His eyes caught sight of the larger man's tongue darting out causing him to smile again.
"For now," Stephen finally replied, his hands still resting on the smaller man's hips.
Phil's head tilted to the side, a mischievous look in his eyes. "Is that a threat or a promise?" He wasn't exactly sure where he wanted things to go with the Celtic Warrior, being that their encounters were rather random, and both have went through rather ugly break ups, but the thoughts were a nice distraction from his previous problems.
"However y'wanna take it. Either way," His hands slid to rest at his side as Phil stepped back, "We'll both benefit from this."
"We'll have to just see, then, won't we?" The younger man asked, "Unfortunately," He continued, pulling Stephen's hands off of him, "I've got to go; hopefully I'll get a few hours of sleep. Anyway, it was fun while it lasted."
"Certainly was," the Irish man answered, moving to open his door as Phil turned to leave. The events of the evening replayed in the man's head as he settled in the driver's seat and started the automobile. Whatever was to happen Sunday, it was sure to be interesting.
A/N: Translations (in order of appearance): If we missed any translations, please let us know
*Usted sabe que el señor Brooks no tendrá su asalto a él a la ligera - You know that Mr. Brooks isn't going to go easy on you
*Él va a tratar de ser embarazoso - He will try to embarrass you
*Él sabe que no puede ganar contra mí - He knows he can't defeat me.
*Voy a aplastar el culo escuálido en el lienzo - I will crush his skinny ass on the canvas
*Fuair mé rud éigin cosúil mé níos fearr a - I think I know what I want instead
*mal criado - Spoiled
*Por qué no te vas a saltar a un río desde un puente alto - Why don't you jump into a river from a high bridge?