To Thine Own Self...
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III. Demons
May 13th, 7:45pm

There were few things that got under John Cena's skin. Being whipped into the turnbuckle and then speared by Dave Batista's rather sizable shoulder wasn't one of them. He'd been wrestling long enough to not lose his temper over the match not going his way the entire time.

"John Cena getting the spear...Batista hasn't let up once during this entire matchup, King."

"Batista's been doing that a lot lately, JR. Fill in the animal-related joke on it, but he's really taken to just mauling the other guy like there's no tomorrow."

No, it was Batista himself that was putting Cena off of his game. To John, Batista had never really been the Animal. He didn't pull punches if they ended up in the ring against each other, but there was never a question since the day they'd met in OVW that Batista was a friend.

All of that was gone tonight. Batista was rabid, and every time he rammed his knee through Cena's gut, Cena could feel the rage as much as the blows. He just didn't get where it was coming from, being pretty sure that he hadn't done anything to piss Batista off lately. Hell, they hadn't even talked lately.

Finally, John had enough. When Batista stalked at the referee to yell at him over the five-count for the corner antics, John broke into a run on the spot and introduced Batista to his shoulder.

He didn't let up, not willing to give Batista any more time to mount his berserker offensive. Bouncing off the ropes, John fully intended to clothesline Batista's head off, but found his opponent wasn't where he wished.

Instead of taking it, Batista leaned over at the last second, perfectly timing his counter to when John had already committed. Out of nowhere, John found himself flying clear over Batista's back as he was hefted up and tossed with his own momentum.

The ring ropes were the icing on the cake, too; Batista had been close to the edge, and when John came down, it was nicely across the top rope. If the rope biting into his skin much more than when he simply bounced off of them wasn't bad enough, the fact that he couldn't stop the rebound and landed back-first on the ring certainly did.

A fall like that gave no room for recovery; John had no way of shifting his weight to alter how he landed, and instead of landing on one of his lats and just getting a bruise to show off, he landed spine-first. His head bouncing off the ring, John found that while his mind really wanted to stand up, his body wasn't going to oblige right away.

"Did you see that, J-R? Cena's like a Mexican jumping bean!"

"Maybe more like a Marine jumping bean in this case, but the difference doesn't really matter to Batista, that's for sure...

John wasn't stupid; he knew very well what was about to happen as soon as he realized his head was locked firmly between Batista's knees. He tried to stand, maybe throw Batista over his back like he'd just been thrown himself, but it was hopeless. The conk on the back of his head robbed him of his strength completely, long enough for Batista to yank John up onto his shoulders and then all the way down to the ring, back-first.

"Wham, Batista Bomb!"

"Cena just had his back rearranged!"

Much like being unable to muster a counter, John was completely unable to make his arms and legs move enough to raise a shoulder against Batista's weight down on him. The referee slapping the mat for one, two and three was loud; the bell ringing was even louder.

Now, the ring announcer, he was just deafening. "Here is your winner...Batista!"

In the midst of trying to make his arms and legs do what he wanted, Cena tried to figure what went wrong. It was hard to think with his lower back a giant cramp and Batista's music thundering through the 1st Mariner, but the loss really bothered him more than it should have.

He realized he'd let himself go since losing the US title, not so much physically as mentally. John could feel the dregs; he'd grown, if not less competent, then too apathetic. Maybe it was what he and Randy were talking about earlier, about the ring lacking any real drama over the last several weeks.

Whatever it was, John just felt drained. Besides that, he also really wanted to know what had Batista frothing at the mouth. Much to his surprise, though, when John finally managed to sit up, he found an empty ring. Batista had simply left to storm up the ramp and leave, without a single word. Feeling like he'd been stepped on metaphorically much more than physically, John fully intended to get up and go after him, ask him what had gotten into him, maybe.

As soon as John was on his feet, the arena started spinning worse than when he'd simply sat up. Batista was long gone by the time he stumbled out of the ring, his knees weak.

The decision to go up the ramp instead of next to it was a conscious one for John. He felt like a chump, losing because he'd been caught off-guard like that, and it made the idea of walking that close to the fans who were booing him for it a little nauseating. Par for the course, it made the idea of walking that close to the fans who were still cheering him despite it even worse.

It was, John knew, a cruel parallel to Randy's night, when he knocked on the door to his own locker room. He figured Randy would've locked it, but there wasn't any answer. Motivated by curiosity, he gathered the strength to give it a good smack with his fist. "Randy! Open up, man. This ain't funny..."

Trying the door, John found that it opened, and he felt more than a little foolish. His first thought was that Randy had left and gone off to his hotel - or a bar, for that matter - but this idea proved wrong. Randy was still in the room, but he was huddled into the far corner. He leaned out when the door opened. "Cena? That you?"

"Randy," John stared at him, unblinking, "What are you doing?"

"Dead guy was banging on the door," Randy said. He was much calmer than he'd been earlier, and John found that a little odd, considering what Randy was saying. "Like, wham, wham, wham," Randy went on, pantomiming it with his fist. "Knew I was in here, too. Kept yelling something like, 'Orton, Orton, did you write this, you little bastard?'"

John fought the reflex to roll his eyes. "So why didn't he bust the door down and...whatever?"

"Don't know," Randy shrugged. "I just hid over here and he left. Maybe he didn't know I was in here after all."

Deciding not to go down the path of asking Randy why the Undertaker would bang on the door to this locker room while shouting for him, John changed the subject. Randy, for all of the sudden calmness he'd been scared into, looked like hell. He was still wearing his wrestling gear, the bruises he'd gotten from Umaga had long since started to color, and the grime he'd collected rolling around the ring and mats like a rag doll was more obvious. He probably didn't smell like roses from up close. "Randy, dude...you need a shower and a night's sleep."

"Yeah," Randy nodded. Pausing, he glanced to the side. "You, uh...mind if I use yours? I don't want to find out if he's waiting in my locker room."

"Yeah, go for it," John said, before he even thought about how much he needed a shower himself. It didn't bother him much, in the end. He would have plenty of time once Randy was done.

The usual courtesy Randy showed John, among a few others, seemed much more like timid modesty right now. He set his change of clothes right outside the single-sized shower, and didn't take off what he was wearing until he was safely behind the curtain.

Something Randy said was bothering him a lot more than thoughts of having to possibly watch the guy strip, though. "Asked if he 'wrote it,' huh?"

Digging into his pocket, John retrieved the little couplet he'd forgotten about during his match. Re-reading the words, he couldn't help but wonder if he was the only one getting weird rhymes on small pieces of paper.