A/N: Onions has officially decided that this story is retarded. And this is good. Just so there's no confusion going forward, Onions must reiterate in each chapter that, in Onions' little retarded tale, all of the brands are traveling together always. They are traveling on Greyhound buses, instead of airplanes. And, that this story will take place during the time that William Regal was GM of RAW. So, now that Onions has cleared all of that shit up, thanks to those of you who reviewed, and here's the next part!
(Oh yes, Onions almost forgot. WWE owns all recognizable characters herein; shamefully Onions does not.)
The conference room/ cafeteria of Alabaster's Route 67 Howard Johnson had taken on yet another function this afternoon. The tables and uncomfortable folding chairs had been cleared out, and thin mats had been laid down in their place. All over the fish-smelling room, WWE superstars grappled with each other, putting together ideas for impending matches and killing time before Mr. McMahon's return from City Hall.
Towards the center of the room, Jeff and Matt were throwing themselves fully into the spontaneous workout, thoroughly enjoying the welcome distraction. Matt picked Jeff up, and body-slammed him into the mat, causing the younger Hardy to groan in pain.
"Ow!", complained Jeff, "Son of a bitch!"
Matt helped his brother up, snickering. "Sorry, man. You alright?"
Before Jeff could reply, he heard the door to the room open with such force that it slammed against the wall. The wrestlers all stopped their grappling, and openly stared at the person standing in the doorway.
Chris Jericho, his face bloody and bruised, his hair covered in mud and swamp muck, leaned heavily against the doorframe, his bright blue eyes falling immediately onto the Hardy boys. His clothes were torn into filthy shreds which hung loosely from his battered frame. He took a halting step forward, raising a shaking hand to point at his arch-nemeses. All around the room, wrestlers began to whisper excitedly at the show unfolding before their eyes.
"You", hissed Jericho, his gaze unwavering, "You motherfuckers!"
Matt and Jeff shot each other nervous glances.
Movement to Chris' right made him rapidly turn his gaze. He saw Edge starting to tiptoe out of the room. "EDGE, TO ME!", cried Jericho in a voice filled with equal parts fury and insanity.
Head bowed and shoulders slumped, Edge shuffled over to his Canadian pal.
Returning his attention to Matt and Jeff, Y2J took another halting step towards the brothers. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Battle of the bands, bitches! Fozzy vs. that piece of shit you call Peroxwhy?gen! Tonight, midnight, Walmart parking lot!!!!", he said, his voice low and furious, "You're MINE! You are fucking MINE!!!"
He turned on his heel, almost fell, and began to walk out, saying, "Edge, come along!"
The Rated R Superstar scurried after Jericho like a whipped dog.
Matt and Jeff, ignoring the stares of their fellow superstars, looked at each other grimly. So it had come to this. God help them all.
* * * * * * *
Vince McMahon walked through the crumbling doors of the Alabaster town hall with trepidation. He was not looking forward to canceling the show. After all, these backwoods mutants looked like they, of all people, could use a good show to get their minds off of their dismal existences. But, he'd made his decision, and wouldn't be swayed from it.
As he entered the building, he squinted his eyes in the dim and dusty interior. The dirty building, decorated in ill-kept antiques and moth-bitten oriental rugs, gave the chairman the impression that he was standing in the middle of a tomb. Steeling himself, the normally unflappable McMahon called out hesitantly, "Hello? Is anyone here?"
As if she had been waiting in the shadows the entire time, Anabella appeared, her gaze intense on Vince.
"I thought I heard someone enter", she said, her lips pursed in a tight imitation of a smile.
Uncomfortable under her severe scrutiny, Vince got right to it. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, I actually came to speak with you about the show."
Her eyes glistened like two black beetles in the low light. "I trust all is going well. The townsfolk are greatly anticipating it."
He didn't like her tone. She seemed utterly civil and benign on the surface, yet he sensed danger lurking beneath her southern charm.
"I'm afraid we've taken it under consideration, and, as your facility does not meet industry standards, we are going to have to bow out of this one. I have my wrestlers' safety to consider. We would be happy to sign autographs-"
He trailed off as he watched Anabella's formerly statuesque façade devolve into an ugly, grimacing mass of wrinkles and lines.
"You are canceling the show?", she asked in a quiet voice that seemed to fill the silent, dusty chambers of the city hall.
McMahon nodded in response, unsure why he was allowing this woman to intimidate him. He had made his decision, after all. He stood taller, and puffed his chest out a bit. That always made him feel more confident.
Anabella regained her composure suddenly, as if it had never been lost. She smiled in that disarming way, her piercing gaze fixed upon the chairman.
"I understand that you are concerned for your wrestlers' safety", she said, the warm, rolling southern accent helping to lessen the effect of that unflagging stare, "And I am sure that each one of my fellow townsfolk would appreciate an autograph. You are kind to offer even that. But, Mr. McMahon," she took a step towards him, "Is there nothing we can do about the show? No compromise we can reach?" She took another step towards the chairman, so that they were almost touching. "I would be indebted to you. After all, the people of Alabaster are rather desperate for entertainment." She boldly extended her arm and ran two fingers down the lapel of his gray suit jacket, a half-smile on her smooth face.
Vince stood there, completely dumbfounded.
"I assure you", she continued, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in his collar with her dexterous fingers, "Our ring is completely safe. When you inspected it, it was not completed. In one day's time, we will have a regulation ring." Her fingers moved lower, causing the chairman's eyes to widen. "Please, Vince, don't take this away from Alabaster's people." Her dark eyes locked on Vince's confused gaze.
The chairman looked away, shaking his head angrily. "I cannot put my superstars at risk! I'm sorry, but-"
She grabbed him by the front of his jacket and hauled him forward then, leaning up to kiss him long and hard on the mouth. Vince froze, shocked by her unexpected actions, though he did not pull away. After a few moments, she moved back, her unfathomable eyes raking over the chairman's face.
"Just another day", she whispered huskily, "Make your decision then."
Nodding shakily, Vince made his way out of the dusty town hall and back into the sunlit world.
* * * * * * *
Jeff sat on his bed at the hotel, bent over a black acoustic guitar. His brows furrowed in concentration as he plucked each string gingerly, and turned the corresponding tuning pegs at the top of the instrument. The younger Hardy had purchased this guitar in a pawn shop in Seattle several years back, and though he knew it was a piece of crap, he loved it all the same.
It had been a while since he'd played it, and Jeff was desperately trying to get it in tune before the Battle of the Bands that night. He wasn't having much success. After hitting the G string 20 times in a row, he finally threw the guitar onto his bed in frustration.
"This is so god damn stupid!", growled Jeff, "I'm not going."
The blue-haired wrestler had been distressed and angry ever since McMahon's return that afternoon. Many of the superstars, including the Hardys, had been waiting impatiently in the lobby of the quaint country hotel, bags packed, ready to move on. The chairman had stumbled in, late afternoon sunlight at his back. There had been dark circles beneath his eyes, and, of all things, a confused expression on his lined face. When he'd realized he was being stared at, he'd grumbled softly, "We're staying for another couple of days." Ignoring the protests and outbursts from the wrestlers, he'd walked up towards his room. Jeff snarled as he remembered the look on McMahon's face. Annabella was winning, and it infuriated him.
Matt walked in from the bathroom, where he had been meticulously lining his eyes with black charcoal.
"You're going, Jeff", he said dryly, "Cause if you don't, we're gonna hear about it from every fucking retard on this roster for the rest of our lives. So just get the stupid guitar in tune, and we can get this shit over-with!"
With that, Matt disappeared back into the bathroom to continue his grooming.
Jeff sniffed. "My guitar's not stupid", he muttered.
Just as he was picking his instrument back up off the bed, Shannon Moore burst through the door, dressed for the occasion in tight leather pants, heavy eye makeup, and nothing else. "Aw yeah, bitches, you ready to go kick Jericho's ugly ass?!", he yelled in a high-pitched voice.
"Fuck you, dickhead!" A Fozzy supporter had obviously heard Shannon's outburst.
Laughing, Shannon gave the finger to whoever was down the hallway, then entered and shut the door. He looked around at the chaotic mess that was the Hardys' hotel room, shaking his head. Jeff was just finishing tuning the guitar, and he finally put it down with a relieved sigh. Shannon fixed his gaze on the younger Hardy, admiring his wardrobe. Jeff usually wore things that were unique and creative, but tonight he had pulled out all the stops. He wore a black leather kilt with a tight, white wifebeater. Doc Martins and heavy gray knee socks completed the outfit. He'd also painted his left arm and neck in an orange and red pattern which resembled licking flames. He had pulled his bluish hair up into a topknot, and, like Matt, applied a small amount of charcoal to his eyes. He was nothing, if not dramatic.
"Nice skirt, man", cracked Shannon, smirking.
"Nice lipstick", returned Jeff.
"Hey, Bowie wore lipstick! Lipstick is fucking cool!"
"What's going on out here?", said Matt, poking his head out.
"And what is Matty wearing tonight?" Shannon ran over to the bathroom door.
Matt was donning a black mesh top and black zebra-print zoobas. He wore a huge silver cross around his neck. He'd been working on his hair when Shannon burst in, so it was half tamed, and half in a state of frizzy disarray. He was wearing charcoal around his brown eyes, and, much to Shannon's shock, a tiny bit of dark lipstick as well.
Shannon grinned mischeviously. "Nice try, Matty, but Jeff's outfit is way cooler."
Matt rolled his eyes in response.
Outside the window, Anabella's minion listened to every word, and remembered.
* * * * * * *
Midnight was approaching, and Jericho and Edge were speeding towards the local Walmart in a "borrowed" car. Chris had made the call to his fellow bandmates earlier in the day, promising them copious amounts of beef jerky and beer if they could show up on time and performance-ready. He had no doubts. They would be there, tuning up when he and Edge arrived.
Jericho, who had developed a rather unpleasant tick in his right eye, sped down the dirt road, his gaze flitting back and forth from the path ahead to his silent companion.
"They'll be there tonight", Jericho said suddenly.
When he didn't elaborate, Edge prodded, "Um, who?"
"That crazy old bitch, Anabella and that assclown Judge!", he replied in an angry burst. Suddenly realizing what he had said, he seemed to shrink in on himself, and was silent once more.
Edge asked quietly, "Why will they be there?"
"They're the ones who wanted this whole god damn battle of the bands to happen!", Jericho replied furiously, his glazed blue eyes falling upon his frightened comrade, "They beat the shit out of me, then told me when I returned I should challenge the stupid fucking Hardys to a battle of the bands, at midnight tonight." His voice dropped. "They're setting a trap for Matt and Jeff." Chris almost sounded guilty as he spoke this revelation out loud for the first time.
Edge didn't quite know how to respond, so he said nothing. They were arriving at the scene of tonight's battle. The Canadian superstars took in the scene with complete awe, and more than a little trepidation.
The tall metal lights that were scattered about the parking lot revealed a scene taken from a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max movie, where the denizens of the world have cast aside civilization and embraced their baser animalistic instincts. Jericho and Edge had been to Walmart many times, but they'd never seen it like this.
Two makeshift stages had been erected in the middle of the empty parking lot. How this feat had been accomplished with the resources available to the wrestlers, neither man could fathom. They saw that nearly the entire roster had shown up to take in the show, though after the scene Jericho had made in the cafeteria/gym earlier that day, he wasn't surprised about that. The wrestlers may have been huge bodybuilders with huger egos, but that never stopped them from passing gossip around like a bunch of old, withered biddies. The meatheads and divas were drinking what looked to be moonshine, and falling all over each other in drunken, obnoxious bliss.
Chris and Edge exchanged a look as they saw that Jeff was sitting on the edge of the stage, holding that shitty beat-up guitar and talking to a few guys in the audience. He looked completely at ease, and ready to play.
Jericho moved his gaze to the other stage. It was empty.
He imagined himself, choking the god damn Hardy Boyz, and began to laugh hysterically. Edge began to get out of the car.
"They didn't come. My fucking band didn't show up!", Jericho said in a shaky voice that was half laugh and half scream.
Pulling his electric guitar and amp out of the back of the car, Chris got out and slammed the door with as much force as he could muster. The car alarm began to go off. Pulling at his hair, he told Edge to take care of it, and walked towards the empty stage.
Ignoring the jibes of his fellow wrestlers, Y2J began to make his way through the packed crowd. Suddenly, a voice rang out over the din.
"Hey, Jericho!", yelled Matt Hardy, "It's cool that at least one member of Fozzy showed up, but, uh, where are you gonna plug in that amp?"
Laughter sprung up out of the crowd like the Judge's fists, assaulting him mercilessly.
"Motherfucker", he muttered darkly, continuing on his way.
When he reached the stage, he dropped the amp and guitar without ceremony, and proceeded to look around for any power outlet within reach. There was none. This was all Anabella's fault.
He glared across the crowd at his nemesis, Jeff Hardy, who appeared ready to play. The little bastard grinned at him.
Suddenly, the Undertaker stepped up onto Jeff's stage, causing a hush to fall over the inebriated crowd. The only sounds were the still-honking car alarm, and Edge's muffled curses as he tried to disable it.
The Deadman gazed around at the drunken revelers, his eyes hard and cold. "We are here tonight to witness a holy tradition in the WWE. The Battle of the Bands goes back to the very inception of wrestling, when Arlan "the Asshole" Briggins and his Irish Whelps battled Vladimir "Red Dick" Dickish and the Russian Sveltskis. Ever since that epic fight, wrestlers have viewed the Battle of the Bands as a nonviolent way to both settle conflicts and humiliate your opponent at the same time. To those doing battle this night, we wish you godspeed."
The Undertaker walked slowly and majestically down the stairs, cutting a swath through the packed crowd effortlessly and disappearing into the Alabaster night.
Jeff took this as his signal to begin. He looked over to Matt, who nodded that he was ready. As soon as Jeff began banging on his trusty black acoustic, the older Hardy began to pump his hips and twirl around the small, unstable stage. The crowd quieted down a bit when they realized the show had begun.
"OH! HO! Why do you feel you gotta goooooooooooooooooo?????!", wailed Jeff at the top of his voice, "OH! MY SOUL IS ON A ROOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!"
The audience looked perplexed at the odd and cryptic lyrics the younger Hardy brother was spitting forth, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves nonetheless. As Matt's interpretive dance continued to unfold around the stage, the audience grew more rowdy and excited.
"OH! WHY! Why the hell can't I fly? Because I'm a mammal like yooooooooooouuuuuuu!!!!!!!!"
Matt made flapping motions with his arms, to mimic a bird. Jeff, meanwhile, began headbanging, much to the delight of the easily-amused wrestlers.
"CHEESE! WHIZ! I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS! OH, it's cheese in a caaaaan, maaaaan!"
In the background, the car alarm ground steadily on.
When his first song had ended, Jeff received thunderous applause from the audience. Jericho, who was sitting slumped over and dejected on the opposite stage, muttered, "This fucking music sucks my asshole."
Jeff sang three more songs, his blue topknot flying around and about until it was a disheveled mess.
His last song, "ButterFace", was going over quite well with the crowd.
"WHAT HAPPENED THAT YOU LOOK LIKE THAT? YOUR HEAD IS MISSHAPPEN BUT YOUR BODY'S ALL THAT! OOOOOOOOOOH!"
As Jeff was entering the final chorus, he glanced over at the very edge of the Walmart parking lot, where the light from the harsh lamps met the darkness of the woods beyond. What he saw there made his blood freeze, and he nearly dropped his guitar in shock.
Anabella and the imposing man she seemed to always have by her side these days, the man who had been introduced as the mayor of Alabaster, stood on the edge of the light, watching them intently. This sight alone may have frozen him to the spot with dread. But it was the man, the man both brothers had seen in their nightmares, holding Shannon prone that made him drop his guitar and stand there, unable to move or think. Matt saw this awful tableau the same time Jeff did, and he froze in place, staring in horror. Their friend appeared to be too frightened to struggle in the tall man's grip. Before either Hardy could do anything, the three of them were gone, leaving the brothers standing onstage, frozen to the spot.
The drunken assholes in the audience immediately burst into thunderous applause.
Without pretense, Jeff ran off of the creaking stage, his brother right behind him. "You saw that, right?", the younger Hardy whispered shakily, his eyes trying to penetrate the blackness of the forest.
Matt nodded. "Yeah", he whispered.
Jeff looked at Matt, practically hyperventilating from fear and stress. "We have to go after him, Matty", he said, looking more shaken and vulnerable than Matt ever wanted to see.
The older Hardy looked at his brother, his eyes wide. "You know this is a trap, right? You know we're playing right into her hands?"
Jeff's green eyes darkened, and narrowed to slits. "It doesn't matter anymore. She's not gonna do to Shannon what she did to us."
The older Hardy hesitated before nodding his assent.
Ignoring the catcalls and slurred cries for an encore, Matt and Jeff skirted the crowd, and silently followed Anabella and the Judge into the swamplands.
* * * * * * *
Onions likes three things in this life: Jeff Hardy, Cheese, and Reviews. Don't deprive Onions. That's just mean.
