Rules of Conduct (Playing the Game)
--EKB

Somewhere along the line, John Bradshaw Layfield had come to realize three things--the first being that this was not, by any means, how he would have expected this thing to go. The second was that the man in front of him--dangerous emerald eyes glinting with a sadistic sort of satisfaction--had clearly lied when he'd said he and his partner had never done this sort of thing before. And the last realization, which was by no means least, was that he was in way over his head--and the shit was just too damn deep by now for him to pull himself up and out.

Damn Hunter to hell for talking me into this.

"Hunter. Baby, I--I don't think I can't do this. Not--not here, in front of all these people--"

"Of course you can," came the smoothly-whispered reply, in close vicinity to John's ear. "If you don't, Taker will make us both his bitches, and I'm not about to play that game again."

John groaned.

"I still don't know how the hell y'all talked me into this."

"Hey," another voice imposed on the conversation--the challenger, the Undertaker. "You pantywaists gonna do this sometime tonight, or what?"

"Just take him, Bradshaw," urged Hunter. "Take him. I know you know how." John took in a deep breath, releasing it heavily.

"You are gonna help me the hell out here. You got me into this mess, and you are damn well gonna get me out of it."

John's hands were trembling even as Hunter slid into position behind him, his sturdy frame pressed against his backside. Hunter's hands were on his hips, strong and assured, guiding John into his stance.

"Just nail it in there, baby. Put it in there hard."

John positioned himself, shut his eyes tightly, and thrust forward with authority.

"Eight ball, corner pocket."

The glossy black ball sailed across the green felt and reached its destination. When it did, John turned and Hunter threw his arms around his waist, and damn near lifted him off the floor.

"Ha! Suck it, Taker! You and Simmons both owe us two hundred bucks."

The volatile redhead swore colorfully, threw two crumpled hundreds on the table and stalked off in the direction of the bar; John grinned as he watched him go.

"I can't believe we did it," he declared, still beaming. "I can't believe we beat that sneaky bastard. His record of ass-kickin' at pool is almost as notorious as his Wrestlemania streak."

"All I can say," said Hunter, "is that I love you. I love you, John Bradshaw Layfield, and I could just go ahead and kiss you right here, right--" He stopped, a frown creeping its way across his features.

Ron Simmons was still standing there, regarding the both of them intently. He spoke not a word, but instead glanced from Hunter, to John, back to Hunter and shook his head.

Hunter cleared his throat and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, while John averted his eyes completely to the floor. Ron shook his head again, seemingly disbelieving of the pair. He contemplated a long, long moment before he finally spoke.

"DAMN."

The two exchanged a glance as he laid the money on the table, Hunter snickering as Ron walked away.

"You're a god," John told Hunter. "You do know that."

"Couldn't be without you," he replied with a half-smile. "Hey, do you see what I see over there?" John followed Hunter's gaze across the room, a smirk playing on his features as he did.

"Orton and DiBiase."

"Bet we could scam them out of a few hundred while we're hot."

"Hot? Bradshaw. We're invincible."

"Damn straight. Let's go do this."

With that, the two headed off in the direction of another potential score. The night was still young, and there was still a hell of a lot of money to be made.

FIN