The Only Way Out is In
CHAPTER TWO
Paul Ortiz was lean and frim, despite his age of fifty-two. This was credited to the fact that he walked to and from his work everyday, six long blocks of uphill work, dressed in his full attire.
The attire of a police officer, for he was the police cheif of Sacramento.
He hurried along the sidewalk, the gusty wind prickling his balding and graying head. His wife often fretted about him, for his job was dangerous and he was old. She often said one day walking home from work in the dark alleyways, he would be killed by a crazy murder. He often replied by saying he'd catch the killer and put him directly in his place behind bars.
Now, he hurried past the city arena and frowned in disgust at the title currently electrified across its viewing screen: WWF KING OF THE RING.
His eight year old son was addicted to wrestling, and it was only by his wife's persistant urgings did he allow Jason to watch the horrid entertainment. He found it disgusting and terrible, a window to the savages of third country worlds.
Still watching the sign warily, he made his usual turn into the alleyway that would lead him to the winding road back to his safe, secure house.
He stopped shock still when he heard a muffled scream.
Instinctively, his hand went to the police belt he still had on and took the flashlight out, flicking it on, and racing down the alley quietly.
"Oh God, what happened? Oh my God, what happened?"
His light washed over a blonde haired man, his face, hair, and body slicked with blood, stradling the limp form of a bloody woman.
A murder.
The scenario raced through his mind.
Disgust plucked at him as he jerked his gun from holster.
"FREEZE!" he roared, pointing the gun with one hand, steadying the light with the other. "Sacramento PD! Don't move, you sick son of a bitch!"
The man, his bloodied face falling, tore his gaze from the woman he stradled and looked at Ortiz.
"This isn't what it looks like!" he cried, struggling to his feet, staggering against the wall, waving his hands. "Somebody attacked me-"
"Looks like you attacked her, pal!" Ortiz blasted, springing forward and catching the man in suprise, fluidly twisting the arm around the attacker's back. The attacker yelped, and Ortiz raised the arm a notch higher. "Don't move, bastard!" Crushing the bloody man against the wall, he fumbled for his cell phone and punched in the numbers hurridly as the attacker blabbled aplogies and cries of innocence. "Richmond!" he yelled into the phone, recongizing the voice of the young, green rookie. "I need backup on Thirty First and Almond! Keep it quiet and send over the proper authorities, I have a possibel homocide-"
"I didn't kill her!" the attacker protested. Ortiz drove his knee into the man's spine.
"Do it, Richmond, and hurry!"
"Right away, sir!" the rookie answered, awestruck, and hung up the phone.
"I didn't do anything," the attacker pleaded, his eyes focused on the bloody woman. "I didn't! I got attacked-"
"And your accomplice left you here to take the rap!" Ortiz interrupted, whipping out his handcuffs and bounding the attacker's hands behind his back. "I know it all, pal! Don't move, or you make me use my gun, bastard!" Holding the chain of the cuffs, Ortiz bent down and checked the vitals of the limp woman. He blinked, his mind boiling with rage and injustice.
"She's dead!" Ortiz roared, flinging the stunned attacker into the rough wall of the damp alleyway. "You *bastard,* you killed her! How do you justify that?"
"I didn't kill her!" insisted the sobbing, shaking man. "Please, believe me!"
"Your name?" Ortiz said roughly.
"Chris Irvine," complied the attacker, his head hung. "You have to believe me-"
"Cut the crap, asshole!" Ortiz barked. Suddenly lights illuminated the far end of the alleyway, and a siren pierced the breathy silence. Smiling savagely, Ortiz shone his flashlight on the bloodied, tear-streaked face of the attacker. "We'll see how well you handle this, asshole."
CHAPTER THREE
*''I sit here locked inside my head Remembering everything you've said The silence gets us nowhere, Gets us nowhere way too fast*
Kurt Angle turned down the dial of the radio as a knock bounced off the walls of his small hotel room. Wincing as he got his feet, he limped to the door and peeped out the hole. Confusedly, he opened it.
"Mark,' he said, grimacing as leaned heavily against the wall.
"You seem jacked up terribly," Mark Calloway remarked, nodding.
"Thanks, I really should be in a hospital," Kurt said, managing to grin. "But when they took Shane, I decided I didn't want to be poked and prodded tonight."
"You should be spending the night in Needle Land."
"The Land of the Few and the Brave," nodded Mark, smiling. "You okay?"
"I seem to be. I have a sprained tailbone, a concussion, a freak show of bruises and bumps. Would you like to see the bruise on the inside of my thigh? I think it looks like Madonna, but Shane insisted it looked like Cher. Personally, Cher's too-"
"I don't want to see it," Mark said quickly. "Have you seen Chris?"
"Jericho or Benoit?"
"Jericho," Mark answered. "He should be back by now."
"Sweet, Mark's being motherhen," Kurt said, smiling, "but I don't know where he is. Why?"
"I think he went to a bar-"
"I should have went," Kurt interjected.
"That you should," agreed Mark. "But he had a bad concussion, and wasn't exactly set."
"Poor him," Kurt said, catching sound of his turned down radio, and the song that was almost over. "Listen, he'll be fine, but you're making me miss my song!"
"Staind?" questioned Mark as Kurt limped and slipped the dial back up.
"It's on CD, but I love this song. Anyways, don't worry 'bout Chris. He's a big guy, not too bright, but he can take care of himself, believe me. He's smart-"
"You said he wasn't bright."
"I lied. Anyways, don't worry. Go back to sleep, you need it, Dead Man."
"Good match, Kurt," allowed Mark as he slid out the door.
"You too, Mark."
"I hate Staind," Mark said quickly as the door shut.
"Bastard."
Thumping noises in the hallway outside his room. Arguing voices and angry words.
Frowing, Mark went to the door and opened it, putting his head through.
The owner of the WWF, Vince McMahon, was having a spirited debate with Kurt Angle. An injured Kurt was angrily pumping his fist into the air, motioning to nothing.
"Kurt, please, you're hurt-" Vince was protesting.
"I've been more injured than this!"
"But-"
"Whatcha guys talking about?" Mark said casually as he swung out the door. Vince's eyes flustered as he saw Mark. Vince was good guy, a guy people could trust, and have solid, loyal relationships with. Mark himself considered the WWF owner a personal friend. Kurt's next words stopped his muses.
"Chris is in police custody! They said he killed a woman!"
"He . . . what?" Mark sputtered.
"He killed somebody!" Vince exploded. "He couldn't have, couldn't have! He's too friendly to kill anybody! He comes from Canada, the land of insanely nice people!"
"I could object," Kurt muttered, then rose his voice. "Please, Vince, you have to listen! We both know him, we're his friends!"
Mark was still trying to comprehend what Kurt had said when Vince sighed.
"Get your damn jackets," he snarled, fixating his eye on Kurt. "You ain't catching a cold too!"
"Oh, you're too nice!" Kurt began to jump up and down. "We'll storm that damn police station to rescue or wounded warrior, Jericho!" He suddenly stopped and stooped, clucthing his back, grimacing. He smiled at Vince and Mark painfully. "Uh . . . you can storm the police station, I'll be lookout."
"You're sickening," Mark said, blinking, and went back into his room, emerging in a leather jacket and Kurt limped out with a wool coat over his shoulder.
"Leather costs too much," he complained, looking at Mark.
"It wouldn't look good on you, anyway."
"Would too!"
"You're full of yourself!"
"Am not, you . . .you . . . leather wearing freak!"
"That's the best you can come up with?"
"Let's go, people, I'm kinnda late," Vince said pointedly, rushing forward.
Mark smiled and followed, and then realized what he was going to do.
He was following Vince McMahon to a police station.
Chris Irvine was in police custody being held on murder charges.
This was going to be a bad day, and he almost heard the strains of Kurt's Staind CD in his ears:
*'Cause it's always raining in my head Forget all the things I should have said*
This is not a song-fic, I got the Staind CD today and love it. The songs sort of fit together. I don't own Staind, only the people you don't know, like Paul Ortiz. I'm sorry if this is disappointing you, because you thought the prolouge was going to be like the fic. The prolouge is something that's going to happen, but to learn why he's a catatonic, you gotta know what happens first. Sorry if I gave it away, but I couldn't help it.
Reviewing is greatly appreciated, please.
CHAPTER TWO
Paul Ortiz was lean and frim, despite his age of fifty-two. This was credited to the fact that he walked to and from his work everyday, six long blocks of uphill work, dressed in his full attire.
The attire of a police officer, for he was the police cheif of Sacramento.
He hurried along the sidewalk, the gusty wind prickling his balding and graying head. His wife often fretted about him, for his job was dangerous and he was old. She often said one day walking home from work in the dark alleyways, he would be killed by a crazy murder. He often replied by saying he'd catch the killer and put him directly in his place behind bars.
Now, he hurried past the city arena and frowned in disgust at the title currently electrified across its viewing screen: WWF KING OF THE RING.
His eight year old son was addicted to wrestling, and it was only by his wife's persistant urgings did he allow Jason to watch the horrid entertainment. He found it disgusting and terrible, a window to the savages of third country worlds.
Still watching the sign warily, he made his usual turn into the alleyway that would lead him to the winding road back to his safe, secure house.
He stopped shock still when he heard a muffled scream.
Instinctively, his hand went to the police belt he still had on and took the flashlight out, flicking it on, and racing down the alley quietly.
"Oh God, what happened? Oh my God, what happened?"
His light washed over a blonde haired man, his face, hair, and body slicked with blood, stradling the limp form of a bloody woman.
A murder.
The scenario raced through his mind.
Disgust plucked at him as he jerked his gun from holster.
"FREEZE!" he roared, pointing the gun with one hand, steadying the light with the other. "Sacramento PD! Don't move, you sick son of a bitch!"
The man, his bloodied face falling, tore his gaze from the woman he stradled and looked at Ortiz.
"This isn't what it looks like!" he cried, struggling to his feet, staggering against the wall, waving his hands. "Somebody attacked me-"
"Looks like you attacked her, pal!" Ortiz blasted, springing forward and catching the man in suprise, fluidly twisting the arm around the attacker's back. The attacker yelped, and Ortiz raised the arm a notch higher. "Don't move, bastard!" Crushing the bloody man against the wall, he fumbled for his cell phone and punched in the numbers hurridly as the attacker blabbled aplogies and cries of innocence. "Richmond!" he yelled into the phone, recongizing the voice of the young, green rookie. "I need backup on Thirty First and Almond! Keep it quiet and send over the proper authorities, I have a possibel homocide-"
"I didn't kill her!" the attacker protested. Ortiz drove his knee into the man's spine.
"Do it, Richmond, and hurry!"
"Right away, sir!" the rookie answered, awestruck, and hung up the phone.
"I didn't do anything," the attacker pleaded, his eyes focused on the bloody woman. "I didn't! I got attacked-"
"And your accomplice left you here to take the rap!" Ortiz interrupted, whipping out his handcuffs and bounding the attacker's hands behind his back. "I know it all, pal! Don't move, or you make me use my gun, bastard!" Holding the chain of the cuffs, Ortiz bent down and checked the vitals of the limp woman. He blinked, his mind boiling with rage and injustice.
"She's dead!" Ortiz roared, flinging the stunned attacker into the rough wall of the damp alleyway. "You *bastard,* you killed her! How do you justify that?"
"I didn't kill her!" insisted the sobbing, shaking man. "Please, believe me!"
"Your name?" Ortiz said roughly.
"Chris Irvine," complied the attacker, his head hung. "You have to believe me-"
"Cut the crap, asshole!" Ortiz barked. Suddenly lights illuminated the far end of the alleyway, and a siren pierced the breathy silence. Smiling savagely, Ortiz shone his flashlight on the bloodied, tear-streaked face of the attacker. "We'll see how well you handle this, asshole."
CHAPTER THREE
*''I sit here locked inside my head Remembering everything you've said The silence gets us nowhere, Gets us nowhere way too fast*
Kurt Angle turned down the dial of the radio as a knock bounced off the walls of his small hotel room. Wincing as he got his feet, he limped to the door and peeped out the hole. Confusedly, he opened it.
"Mark,' he said, grimacing as leaned heavily against the wall.
"You seem jacked up terribly," Mark Calloway remarked, nodding.
"Thanks, I really should be in a hospital," Kurt said, managing to grin. "But when they took Shane, I decided I didn't want to be poked and prodded tonight."
"You should be spending the night in Needle Land."
"The Land of the Few and the Brave," nodded Mark, smiling. "You okay?"
"I seem to be. I have a sprained tailbone, a concussion, a freak show of bruises and bumps. Would you like to see the bruise on the inside of my thigh? I think it looks like Madonna, but Shane insisted it looked like Cher. Personally, Cher's too-"
"I don't want to see it," Mark said quickly. "Have you seen Chris?"
"Jericho or Benoit?"
"Jericho," Mark answered. "He should be back by now."
"Sweet, Mark's being motherhen," Kurt said, smiling, "but I don't know where he is. Why?"
"I think he went to a bar-"
"I should have went," Kurt interjected.
"That you should," agreed Mark. "But he had a bad concussion, and wasn't exactly set."
"Poor him," Kurt said, catching sound of his turned down radio, and the song that was almost over. "Listen, he'll be fine, but you're making me miss my song!"
"Staind?" questioned Mark as Kurt limped and slipped the dial back up.
"It's on CD, but I love this song. Anyways, don't worry 'bout Chris. He's a big guy, not too bright, but he can take care of himself, believe me. He's smart-"
"You said he wasn't bright."
"I lied. Anyways, don't worry. Go back to sleep, you need it, Dead Man."
"Good match, Kurt," allowed Mark as he slid out the door.
"You too, Mark."
"I hate Staind," Mark said quickly as the door shut.
"Bastard."
Thumping noises in the hallway outside his room. Arguing voices and angry words.
Frowing, Mark went to the door and opened it, putting his head through.
The owner of the WWF, Vince McMahon, was having a spirited debate with Kurt Angle. An injured Kurt was angrily pumping his fist into the air, motioning to nothing.
"Kurt, please, you're hurt-" Vince was protesting.
"I've been more injured than this!"
"But-"
"Whatcha guys talking about?" Mark said casually as he swung out the door. Vince's eyes flustered as he saw Mark. Vince was good guy, a guy people could trust, and have solid, loyal relationships with. Mark himself considered the WWF owner a personal friend. Kurt's next words stopped his muses.
"Chris is in police custody! They said he killed a woman!"
"He . . . what?" Mark sputtered.
"He killed somebody!" Vince exploded. "He couldn't have, couldn't have! He's too friendly to kill anybody! He comes from Canada, the land of insanely nice people!"
"I could object," Kurt muttered, then rose his voice. "Please, Vince, you have to listen! We both know him, we're his friends!"
Mark was still trying to comprehend what Kurt had said when Vince sighed.
"Get your damn jackets," he snarled, fixating his eye on Kurt. "You ain't catching a cold too!"
"Oh, you're too nice!" Kurt began to jump up and down. "We'll storm that damn police station to rescue or wounded warrior, Jericho!" He suddenly stopped and stooped, clucthing his back, grimacing. He smiled at Vince and Mark painfully. "Uh . . . you can storm the police station, I'll be lookout."
"You're sickening," Mark said, blinking, and went back into his room, emerging in a leather jacket and Kurt limped out with a wool coat over his shoulder.
"Leather costs too much," he complained, looking at Mark.
"It wouldn't look good on you, anyway."
"Would too!"
"You're full of yourself!"
"Am not, you . . .you . . . leather wearing freak!"
"That's the best you can come up with?"
"Let's go, people, I'm kinnda late," Vince said pointedly, rushing forward.
Mark smiled and followed, and then realized what he was going to do.
He was following Vince McMahon to a police station.
Chris Irvine was in police custody being held on murder charges.
This was going to be a bad day, and he almost heard the strains of Kurt's Staind CD in his ears:
*'Cause it's always raining in my head Forget all the things I should have said*
This is not a song-fic, I got the Staind CD today and love it. The songs sort of fit together. I don't own Staind, only the people you don't know, like Paul Ortiz. I'm sorry if this is disappointing you, because you thought the prolouge was going to be like the fic. The prolouge is something that's going to happen, but to learn why he's a catatonic, you gotta know what happens first. Sorry if I gave it away, but I couldn't help it.
Reviewing is greatly appreciated, please.