Randy raised one perfectly toned arm to check his watch, frowning impatiently when he read the time before yawning into the palm of his hand. Standing a few inches beside him, Jeff continued to chew his blueberry-flavored bubblegum, his head moving back and forth as he hummed the opening notes to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" under his breath, partly to pass the time, mostly to irritate Randy. Between the two of them they each lugged a half-heartedly constructed cardboard sign, scrawled over with the worst chicken-scratch handwriting in the world and meant to greet the rock band they'd been bullied into picking up at the airport. Jeff's sign boldly proclaimed "SARS Race" in chunky red block letters, while Randy's simply read "Scarlett O'Hara," with "Scarlett" misspelled so that it was missing one "t" and the ink smeared so badly on "O'Hara" that it was barely legible. Jeff, being in title the chivalrous Southern gentleman that Amanda had bestowed upon him, would have pointed out Randy's mistake, but that action pretty much spelled instant death for the youngest Hardy's masculinity, seeing how once Randy found out Jeff had actually watched Gone With The Wind, let alone that he bawled his eyes out every time he saw the ending, the Evolution member would be more than happy to blab his mouth off to the entire WWE locker room.

The odd couple continued loitering around the airport lobby, Jeff having moved from Nirvana to Alice in Chains, Randy debating whether it was worth getting thrown in jail for strangling everybody's least favorite annoying little brother, when out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a petite bleached blonde standing several yards away. Not too shabby, he observed critically to himself, as the blonde girl stood up on tiptoes to whisper something into a security guard's ear. Kind of chunky, and could use a better bleach job that'll cover up all those dark roots, but I guess I could date her...once I'm through with all the seven hundred other women lined up for the next three months, anyway! Randy snickered at that thought, silently congratulating himself on what a ladies' killer he was, when at that moment, the security guard began stalking purposefully toward them, making a beeline straight for the clueless Jeff just as the most Xtreme Skittle must have reached a particularly rocking riff in his song and began headbanging away. The tips of his turquoise-and-magenta-dyed hair flew rapidly back and forth, smacking against the already surly-looking guard's mouth and leaving a rather prominent colored streak in their wake. Randy none-too-softly poked his partner in crime in the ribs, causing the smaller youth to grunt and painfully rub at his sore spot, before whipping over to practically headbutt the airport security guard.

"Uh, can I help you, Mr..." Jeff's eyes traveled to the guard's uniform, struggling to read his name tag before he ventured uncertainly, "Can I help you, Mr. Sexy?" Randy's eyes goggled out, as the security guard harrumphed and dryly corrected Jeff, "That's Sexton." Jeff gave a sheepish grin in reply, before mumbling, "Heh, sorry. I must have left my contacts at home today, Officer, um, Anglo-Saxon, was it?"
"Sexton," Randy hissed, before deciding that if he allowed Jeff to deal with the guard any longer, they'd both wind up in the county jail before the day was over, and reluctantly shifting the responsibility onto his own shoulders. "Have we done anything offensive or illegal, sir?"
"Not you, kid," the guard replied, then pointed with his nightstick at Jeff's homemade sign and growling, "But you, son--you've got a lot of nerve coming over to this airport and waving around a pro-SARS sign fifteen minutes before the afternoon flight from Hong Kong is scheduled to land."
"Oh, that," Jeff airily waved his hands back and forth, rambling in a rapid string of words before Randy could intervene and do some damage control, "Don't worry, Officer Sexist, me and my friend here were forced to pick up this rock band, see, and they happen to be called that name." The guard frowned suspiciously, his eyes alternating back and forth between Jeff's sign and Randy's, before he pointed out bluntly, "Then how come yours says "SARS Race," while the taller musclehead's reads "Scarlet OBlah?"
"Huh?" Jeff blinked back stupidly at the guard, while Randy hastened to reassure him while putting on his most angelic face, "We must have heard the band's name wrong, then. But honestly, Mr. Sexton--"

Before he could spout any more excuses, a sudden and shrill feminine cry of, "There he is! Oh, he's so incredibly, unbelievably yummy!" broke into Randy's words, causing him, Jeff, and the security guard to all turn around. Spotting a growing group of excited young women with adoring looks splashed over their faces, Randy began to grin and loosen the top three buttons of his light blue dress shirt, drawling to himself, "Ah, I see--my devoted worshippers have arrived." He'd barely gotten those words out of his mouth before the group of fangirls promptly let out a collective high-pitched squeal and proceeded to stampede toward Randy and Jeff...and then ran them both over, along with the hapless Sexton, in their mad dash to get at some other "incredibly, unbelievably yummy" stud behind them.

"Gahck!" Randy coughed, spluttering in the dust trail left behind by the fangirls as he painfully stumbled to his feet. Beside him, Jeff also pulled himself up, although with some effort, and took a few minutes to check his appearance in a nearby tinted window to make sure he hadn't gotten any bumps or bruises.
"Oh, no! My hair! Those dumb groupies just gave me split ends," the horrified Hardy wailed, his fingers combing through his precious dyed locks while beside him, Randy rolled his eyes heavenward and mumbled something about Jeff always having had split ends.
"Come on, let's go see what kind of mindless pretty boy gigolo suckered in all those lousy chicks," Randy grumbled, beginning to stalk over to where a growing cluster of females was gathering. Jeff glanced down at the squashed and flattened security guard, before speaking up uncertainly, "Uh, shouldn't we peel that Saxophone guy off the floor as well?" Randy gave him an incredulous look, scoffing, "What, and have him fine us for your SARS blunder? Forget it, Hardy!" With one final glance at the luckless Officer Sexton, Jeff shrugged before hastening to catch up to Randy.

Standing in the middle of the circle of adoring girls and taking in all their shrieking and groping with easygoing grace, Deron was smiling goofily in the direction of every flashbulb that went off, showing off his pearly whites and tossing back his golden mane of hair while laughing loudly at some joke that only he apparently had heard.
"Well, you girls do know that Rage is going out on tour this summer," the Floridian babbled on, grinning and making the "Rock On" sign with one hand while using his other to run casually through his longish dark blonde hair. "Hell, we're going to be hitting all the major rock markets--L.A., New York, Chicago, Philly--but don't worry, I'll make sure that the tour stops by some of the smaller towns, just for all you nice corn-fed country babes out there!" Beside him, Raven rolled her eyes heavenward, before suddenly remembering that her own beloved Josh Hartnett could also be lumped into the "corn-fed country babe" category and quickly wiping the smirk off her face.

"Hey, aren't you guys that SARS band?" a distinctly male voice spoke up from somewhere within the wall of young women, and Raven glanced around, intent on huffily correcting him with a snap of, "That's Scarlet Rage, you idi...you...you..." Her lips parted slightly as a sudden dreamy look came over her eyes, and as the guy who'd completely butchered her band's name struggled to catch a glimpse of her face from amidst all the other women's, Raven quickly pushed her way to the forefront and flashed him her brightest smile.
"Hi, I'm Raven!" she chirped happily, brilliant blue eyes dancing with delight when he returned her smile with a mile-wide one of his own.
"Hi, I'm Jeff," the colorful young daredevil bubbled goofily, equally entranced by the heavy metal bassist as she was by him.
"I'm Raven," Raven repeated, for lack of anything better to say.
"I'm Jeff."
"I'm Raven."
"I'm Raven."
"Oh, well then, I guess I'll be Jeff."
"All right. And I'll be Raven."

Randy, standing beside his fellow wrestler, observed all the intelligent conversation flying around with a scornfully bored look on his features, as he rolled his eyes before turning to the nearest Rager and greeting her with, "So then, I guess you guys are that one band..." Realizing that the chances of a heavy metal band calling itself Scarlett O'Hara were slim to none, he took to scrutinizing the band T-shirt she happened to be wearing, assuming she was wearing one of her own band's shirts and trying to decipher the logo. The PMS-ing Rusty, meanwhile, glared at the handsome but rather arrogant young man who suddenly seemed fixated on her top, slapping his chin upwards so that he was looking at her face rather than her chest and growling, "They're called boobs, kid, and if you want to remain a man, I'd suggest you back the hell off from them!" Randy frowned, too used to having attractive young women grovel at his feet to know how to handle one spilling over with threats to castrate him, and opted to shoot back, "Jeez, what's your problem, lady--is it that time of the month or what?" Rusty, her dark eyes snapping fire, gritted out through clenched teeth, "In point of fact, yes!" Randy blinked, startled by her response, before taking a few discreet steps back from the grumpy guitarist and inadvertently bumping so hard into another brunette that he nearly catapulted her into the wall.

Shannon whipped around furiously when she recovered, spotting the culprit--namely, Randy--and punching him so hard for his mistake that her own hand stung with the blow, while she thundered angrily, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you musclebound jack-off?!"
"Ow," poor Randy, bewildered that two attractive young women in a row had attacked him rather than slipping him their hotel room keys, clutched painfully at the purple welt that was beginning to emerge on his tanned cheek, and wound up stumbling into the final member of Scarlet Rage. Anticipating some form of violent response from the tall, raven-haired young woman, the so very cocky and gallant Evolution member cowered against a wall and whined, "Don't hit me! I'm too gorgeous to have scars!"

Camryn, preoccupied with fumbling around in her long leather coat for her near-empty pack of Marlboro's, turned around when she heard the terrified little squeak spoken in a surprisingly masculine voice, and murmured a greeting of, "Hey, just because I wear leather and Spandex doesn't make me a dominatrix. Go hit yourself, kid." Randy stopped shielding his face by crossing both arms above it, daring a peek at the willowy green-eyed vixen he'd bumped into and relaxing when he saw that her right arm wasn't raised in preparation to attack him.
"Hey, I know you," the third-generation Superstar perked up, his eyes lighting with recognition as he said excitedly, "You're that guitar chick...from the Maxim cover...with the legs and everything..." Turning around to slap Jeff's elbow and beckon him in Camryn's direction, Randy fired off, "Hey, Hardy, look--it's that Maxim guitar babe...!" Jeff made no attempt at a response, his eyes still glued on Raven's cornflower-blue ones as he babbled goofily, "And I'm Jeff-or-Raven-or-both."

Randy sighed, using the insides of his knuckles to slap at his temples in dismay as he glanced around at his surroundings. Somewhere in the center of women, Deron was happily laughing away as he signed autographs, posed for pictures, and allowed himself to be groped and pinched all over by his adoring fans. Camryn occupied herself by turning to face a wall and sticking a cigarette into the corners of her lips, struggling to light it with a lighter that absolutely refused to work and letting curses fall freely from her burgundy lips with each failed attempt. Rusty, off in a corner by herself, was glowering at everyone and everything in sight in all her PMS glory, while to the guitarist's right, Raven and Jeff were still dopily introducing themselves to each other over and over again. Finally, somewhere at the edge of the crowds, Shannon seemed to have somehow inveigled her way into a furious argument with a security guard who was positive that the Scarlet Rage drummer looked just like an America's Most Wanted husband-slayer dubbed the Little Lolita.
"Why me?" Randy groaned to himself, cursing his luck at having been stuck with the highly unwanted task of hauling this motley crew back to the amphitheater. "Why do I have to be the only sane one in this group?"


"All right, let's try this again," Stephanie dictated through her loudspeaker. Positioned on a makeshift stage a few yards away, John and Jericho exchanged glares, while sitting behind them on a too small drum stool, Test groped around blindly, both eyes snugly covered with black patches after his little I'm-going-to-be-the-next-Tommy-Lee-just-watch-me incident. Randy was still nowhere in sight, having been harassed by Stephanie into picking up Scarlet Rage at the airport in case Jeff got lost and drove to Mexico instead, but Christian and O'Haire were unfortunately present, and doing as pathetic a job as ever on bass and guitar duties.

"Come on, let's just rehearse," Test grunted, causing Jericho to frown before flipping back his long golden locks and sniffing haughtily, "All right, but this time, I'm starting the song off." Test whipped around in the opposite direction when he heard his fellow Canadian's voice, calling out uncertainly, "Uncle Barbara? Is that you? I can't see too well with these pirate patches over my eyes..." Christian leaned in to whisper in John's ear, "Did he just say he has an uncle called Barbara?" John shrugged, before hissing back, "Dat would make him one wacked out Testicle." O'Haire leaned over to succinctly chip in his two cents.
"Word," the ex-Devil's Advocate agreed, causing both John and Christian to gawk boggle-eyed at him in shock. In response, O'Haire merely raised one eyebrow, before demanding, "And just what is so strange about that? Do I really look that white?"
"Ahem-hem-hem!" Jericho pointedly cleared his throat. "Can we please begin rehearsing now, before Scarlet Rage gets here and blows our metal band right to Kingdom Come for being so shitty?" John made some hip hop gesture that definitely looked obscene to Jericho, Christian and O'Haire settled for merely rolling their eyes and shouldering on their respective instruments, and the fearsome foursome settled into rehearsing, sans one of their hapless guitarists.

"Backstroke lover always hidin' 'neath the covers/'Til I talked to your daddy he say," Jericho began, in a surprisingly tolerable voice as he led the WWE band known as Twisted Thugonomics into its cover of Aerosmith's "Walk This Way"...at least, until John pushed him away from center stage and rapped out the next line.
"He said you ain't seen nothin' 'til you're down on a muffin/Then you're sure to be a changin' your way," the Bostonian fired off, barely managing to get the last word out before Jericho happily swooped back to hog up the spotlight all for himself.
"I met a cheerleader was a real young bleeder/Oh the times I could reminisce--hey!" Jericho hollered, when John viciously shoved him back, with such force that the hapless blonde Canadian went hurtling down the stage and right into a startled O'Haire, bouncing off his muscular chest and torso before finally landing on his butt a few feet beside the highly amused John.
"Cause the best things of lovin' with her sister and her cousin/Only started with a little kiss--oof!" John never got to finish rapping, when Jericho tackled him back with a vengeance, knocking him away from the microphone stand and sending him flying toward Christian, bowling over the unfortunate Intercontinental Champion in the process.

Standing a good distance away from the Fab Four and clustered together with two of the WWE bands, Sunflower and Enigma, the three members of Urban Trash continued to lounge around, having seen far worse during their various eclectic gigs, which had ranged from punk clubs to keg parties, to really be bothered by any impending catastrophes about to occur around them. Melody was sitting quietly in a corner by herself, caught up in the unrequited love of a gallant but unfortunately ugly Frenchman for his delicate lady, occasional tears of enjoyment and emotion flowing down her cheeks at the play's tragic final act.

"Hi there," a high-spirited, friendly male voice chirped from above her, and Melody started up, closing her book as she hurriedly and embarrassedly wiped away any remaining tears with one deft flick of her fingers, before looking up and into a pair of the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. The friendly-looking, happy-go-lucky man who'd startled her out of her silent enjoyment grinned brightly as a greeting, earning himself a shy smile from Melody as he added, "Are you reading? You must be smart, which book is that? Oh, and by the way, I'm Kurt Angle." Melody smiled again, with a bit less timidity this time, as she replied quietly, "I know, congratulations on winning the championship title...and yes I am reading, as a matter of fact."
"That's great," Kurt grinned encouragingly, before repeating "Which book is that?"
"It's a play, actually," Melody corrected him. "Cyrano de Bergerac." She pronounced the play's name in its original French language, causing Sylvan and René a few yards away to perk up and smile at her, much to Amanda's sullen consternation. Melody, meanwhile, stared up at Kurt's dumbfounded expression when he tried to repeat what she'd just said, before the pretty Australian native patiently repeated the play's name, only in its Americanized title this time.
"Oh, that Cyrano," Kurt's face lit up, and a smile of recognition flashed across his wide blue eyes. "Cool, I saw the Wishbone version of that play once!"
"Did you now?" Melody replied graciously, then brought a hand up to her forehead and gasped, "Oh, no, I can't believe I've forgotten to introduce myself all this time! I'm sorry if this seems rude to you."
"Not at all," Kurt replied in an easygoing tone of voice. "At least you didn't sneak in some flippant remark about me being an Olympic bald eagle or anything, like most people would have done!" Melody laughed, before tucking a strand of chocolate-brown hair behind her ear and introducing herself with, "I'm Melody, Melody Turner. My band and I are delighted to be playing alongside you on this Vinyl Act tour"

Gathered around a small round table a few yards away, a group that included three-fourths of the North Carolina crew as well as Urban Trash drummer Max and Verbena singer Kyrie were absorbed in a game of strip poker and completely disregarding Stephanie's orders that they get some rehearsing in before Scarlet Rage arrived and the tour could be kicked off.
"All right, what've you got?" Matt demanded, the smug smirk on his face indicating that he obviously had a great hand. Which was probably a good thing for the Innovator of Mattitude, seeing how he was already sans both his jacket and his shoes, and another loss would strip him of his shirt as well and leave him at Max's mercy. Shannon Moore resolutely threw down his hands, grumbling, "I have the worst of luck at these games, it just isn't fair."
"Honey, come on," Max cooed teasingly, her eyes carefully studying her own cards. "No use stalling."
"Yeah, take those pants off, baby, woo!" Kyrie beside her cheered with a laugh, pretending to wave around a handful of dollar bills. Shannon shot both women a sour look, before heaving a morose sigh and resolutely placing down his eclectic hand in the middle of the table: a two of clubs, a four of spades, a ten of hearts, an ace of diamonds, and a jack of clubs.
"Aw, Shan, you know what that means," Kyrie giggled, exaggeratedly batting her eyelashes in his direction. Shannon groaned, before reluctantly reaching down to his belt and beginning to unzip his jeans. Both Matt and Shane winced and averted their eyes, while Max and Kyrie snickered and exchanged low fives.

While Max and Kyrie were having their fun over Shannon's striptease, Stacy and Gail were observing the last member of Urban Trash fiddling with his bass a distance away from them, before the leggy blonde turned to poke her friend in the ribs and remarked scornfully, "Yuck, have you ever seen a guy that scruffy-looking?" As the Korean diva shook her head and wrinkled her nose in distaste, Lita caught the two's whispered exchange and decided to join in on the fun, wisecracking, "Yeah, talk about a fashion disaster who's in serious need of some help from Queer Eye For The Straight Guy's Fab Five!" The three divas had a nice little laugh over that, before Gail paused and muttered, "Seriously, though, somebody ought to tell him that the grungy flannel look went out in the early nineties, or he'll never get a date with any self-respecting girl!" Stacy rolled her eyes, guessing laughingly, "Oh, please! Mr. Anus Cobain over there? Some guy that hideously dressed couldn't possibly be interested in having a love life! I'll bet he probably doesn't even notice any women unless she's Courtney Love! Ew!" Lita grinned, apparently very much up to the challenge, as she singsonged, "In that case, Keibler, watch and learn!" And the redheaded diva sauntered confidently off, Gail and Stacy eagerly watching her moves to see what she was up to.

Lita casually sashayed up to Connor, asking in a saccharine little schoolgirl voice, "Hi, there, big guy. I'm Lita." Connor glanced up from his bass guitar strings, startled at his unexpected visitor, before a strange expression overcame his features and he replied in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper, "Hi. I'm, er, Connor."
"I know," Lita smiled brightly. "You're that grungy McAnus guy John and the other boys keep making fun of, aren't you?" But she giggled flirtatiously and batted her eyelashes in his direction as she said those words, causing a moment of speechlessness for the punk bassist, before he coughed and cleared his throat in an effort to re-find his voice.
"Erm, right," he finally mumbled with a mouth that suddenly felt as dry as cotton. "Tis actually McManus, though."
"That's absolutely fascinating." And then Lita played her trump card, girlishly clasping her hands behind her back so that her ample chest was deliberately thrust out and toward his face, causing his eyes to widen and a faint blush to wash up his neck and face.
"So...whatcha doing?" Lita purred, putting on a deliberate air of innocent curiosity.
"Uh, tuning me bass strings," Connor mumbled, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck as he spoke and trying not to gawk at her two little friends pushing through the thin mesh material of her shirt.
"Thrills and chills. By the way, Connor, I really like your long, hard..." Lita began murmuring seductively, causing his eyes to widen further, "...neck."
"Wha...?" Connor's voice trailed off in confusion, as he stared up at the feisty redhead, who ran her tongue over her upper lip and explained sultrily, "The neck of your bass, I mean. It's so sexy." She then deliberately let her bracelet slide off her wrist and clatter to the floor, giving her an excuse to bring a hand up to her lips and exaggeratedly pout, "Oops. Guess I better retrieve that." Lita began to slowly bend down to get her jewelry, causing Connor to swallow hard before he hurriedly and clumsily tripped away from where he'd been previously standing, stammering awkwardly, "I, er, have to go...somewhere!" He hastily turned around...and promptly tripped against a metal folding chair somebody had left in his path, his legs flailing wildly before he hit the ground with a solid thud, his nose cracking against the floor. Lita, meanwhile, straightened up and winked back at the other girls, mouthing the words, See? Nothing to it! as they giggled and cheered enthusiastically.

Shane groaned and threw down his cards in dismay, cursing both his bad luck and his even worse poker hand. Beside him, Shannon tossed his fellow bandmate a sympathetic look, murmuring, "Don't worry, I know how you feel." Shane rolled his eyes, replying dryly, "You would, Citizen Moore-on." Shannon looked offended at the insult, then glanced down at his form, stripped of virtually every article of clothing save his boxers, and heaved a sigh, conceding grudgingly, "All right, so I guess I am a moron when it comes to playing strip poker!"
"Come on, quit stalling there, Helms," Max goaded, a triumphant grin on her face that the only pieces of clothing she'd been forced to shed so far were her black platform sandals.
"Yeah, the only guy we have to bring down now is Matt," Kyrie chimed in, as once again the two girls exchanged low fives. Matt puffed out his chest in an exaggerated act of machismo, declaring proudly, "You'll never take me alive--or with my pants off, for that matter!" A burst of laughter erupted around the table, causing Shane to shoot the more fully-clothed poker players a sweeping but good-natured frown, before the superhero reluctantly began to peel off his jeans as well.

At that moment a pair of slender hands encircled around his head to cover his eyes, while the girl they belonged to laughed in a clear, sunny voice, "Guess who, Shaney?" Shane stopped in the middle of unzipping his jeans, immensely grateful that the process had been delayed for a few more minutes, while he guessed with a shrug, "I don't know...Molly?" The girl standing behind him rolled her clear emerald-green eyes, before singsonging, "Uh uh--it's your other favorite girl in the whole wide world!" Shane jumped up, nearly upsetting the small poker table in the process as he whirled around, disregarding the girl's hands over his eyes and sweeping her up in a huge, big-brotherly bear hug as he cried out, "Holy surprises! Kelly! I can't believe you actually made it!" Kelly Marie Helms winced in between her older brother's arms, croaking out, "Shane...I can't breathe..." Shane sheepishly let go of his sister, allowing the pretty twenty-two-year-old North Carolinian to step back and smooth down her perfectly crimped dark brown hair. Kelly then swept the rest of the poker players in a bright smile, opening her green eyes their widest when she caught sight of the three men all in various stages of undress.
"Shane Gregory Helms," she began to chastise her older brother in a bossy tone of voice while placing her hands on her hips, "what exactly do you think you're doing?!" Shane shot his baby sister a sour look, grumbling, "Oh, please, like you came here with the most innocent of intentions!" Kelly laughed, consciously showing off her dimples as she admitted in a carefree voice, "Yes, well, at least I'm not going to be topless--and, in Shannon's case, bottomless as well!--" the blonde cruiserweight blushed crimson--"when I meet all my potential future boyfriends!" Her green eyes sparkled impishly, as she added, "Speaking of which, when are you going to introduce me to all those available WWE hotties?" Shane rolled his eyes, grumbling cheerfully, "And to think I'd deluded myself into thinking that you'd dropped by because you missed your bigger brother!"
"Not a chance," Kelly breezed with a smile. "You know the WWE's pretty much recruited all the hotties from the South--the Hardyz, Shannon, Randy Orton from the Missouri area...speaking of which, where is that ladies' killer, anyway? He's such a hunk!"
"At the airport, picking up a batch of competition for his affections," Shane wasted no time in replying smugly. Kelly frowned, before shrugging off the inconvenience and declaring, "Yes, well, there's plenty of other hotties around! I'm bound to meet my Prince Charming somehow!" And she tossed back her headful of glossy chestnut hair and sang out laughingly, "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match; find me a find, catch me a catch!"

Kyrie perked up when she heard the pretty brunette's singing voice, calling out, "Hey, you're pretty good, you know!" Kelly smiled back none too modestly.
"Thanks," she preened, toying around with her silver Hurricane lavaliere. "I'm sure you've got a pretty good set of pipes yourself, if your band's been selected for this tour." Kyrie shrugged dismissively, before suggesting, "Well yeah, but you, girl, could really give Christina Aguilera a run for her money! How'd you like to join Verbena? Caitlin and Amanda were just talking on the plane about how they'd still need a fourth member, and I'm sure you'd be perfect." Kelly's eyes widened, her dimples deepening in a bright smile as she asked happily, "You're really offering me a spot in your band? Wow, I'm so in!"
"Kel..." Shane's voice trailed off warningly, before he reminded her, "You know how Dad feels about you singing professionally." Kelly waved his warning off, saying airily, "Yeah, well Dad's stuck all the way in Raleigh, isn't he? Besides, I'm a big girl now, I can make my own decisions." Kyrie was chattering excitedly, "Just wait till I talk this over with Amanda and Caitlin, all right? I'll be right back!"
"I'm coming with you," Kelly called out, scurrying to follow the shorter brunette as she scurried off in the rest of Verbena's direction.

"All righty then," Max harrumphed, commanding the attention back to their poker game. "Helms, you lucked out this time, considering how God knows I wouldn't subject your poor sister to seeing you in your boxers on her first day here!" Shane shot her a frosty look, remarking dryly, "Gee, thanks. How very generous of you, Citizen Winters." Max then turned her attention to the other dark-haired North Carolinian at the table, challenging, "Lay 'em out, Hardy, let's see what you've got!" Matt leaned back confidently in his seat, spreading his cards over the table while declaring with a smirk, "Flush." At that one word, Max's grin grew wide enough to match that of the Cheschire Cat, causing Matt's confidence to waver as he asked uneasily, "What? What's so funny?" Max then proceeded to slam down her own cards in the middle of the table, revealing, "Royal flush! You know what that means, Hardy!" Matt shot her a sour look, before grudgingly beginning to peel off his black V1 tank top as she whooped and gloated.

Kyrie, meanwhile, had dragged Kelly to the first Verbena girl she could find, who just happened to be Caitlin, sitting intently on a couch with her back to them as she viewed something on her widescreen TV with round, fascinated green eyes.
"Hey, Cait, I think I've just found the last member of Verbena for us," Kyrie began her pitch.
"Mmm hmm," the blonde Texan on the couch mumbled distractedly in reply.
"No, seriously, she's a great singer," Kyrie persisted, as Kelly beside her got bored of her "audition" and began to wander off in the direction of the hottest guy she'd seen ever since Vince had stolen the Hardyz from her home state.
"Mmm hmm," Caitlin mumbled automatically, still keeping her eyes glued steadfastly on the TV screen.
"Caitlin, are you even listening to me?" Kyrie complained, her voice beginning to take on a whining note.
"Mmm hmm," came the predictable reply, causing Kyrie to huffily cross her arms over her chest and blow away a stray piece of hair that had fallen into her eyes.
"Caitlin, your new perfume smells like men's deodorant," she teased, just for fun.
"Mmm hmm," Caitlin gabbled, refusing to turn around.

Kyrie clicked her tongue impatiently, before an idea occurred to her as to how to wrench Caitlin away from her TV, and she let out a sudden squeal of, "Oh, my God! Rob Van Dam's bending over to do stretches right in front of us! Doesn't he have the cutest--" She never got to finish her sentence, when Caitlin rocketed up from the couch, trampled over her bandmate, and pirouetted around eagerly in a circle, wondering, "Where? Where? Where is he?" Kyrie groaned, grumbling, "Thanks for the concussion there, Cait. Now that I've finally got your attention, can we please discuss some really important band issues?" Caitlin, disappointment written all over her face when she finally saw Rob sitting down and trying to fix his dead microphone instead of stretching, settled back on the couch and returned to her TV.
"Take it up with Amanda, Kyrie, I'm really busy right now," the San Antonio native spoke absentmindedly. Kyrie sighed, rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath, "All right, jeez. I guess it must be something really important and groundbreaking on that TV to keep you so entranced." As she began to slowly walk away in Amanda's direction, Caitlin's voice could be distinctly heard fretting, "No, Jerry! Don't take that piece of cheddar--it's the one Tom's attached to his newest mouse-trapping invention!"

Amanda frowned and pouted when she saw a gorgeous brunette with light brown and blonde highlights in her perfectly crimped chestnut hair flirting away with two men the self-proclaimed Southern belle had already staked out as her own beaus, helpless infuriation evident in her blue-gray eyes when she saw them flirting back.
"Thanks for the offer," Edge was saying, "but do you really think that a personal massage could help me recover faster from my surgery?" Kelly batted her long, dark lashes back at him, cooing innocently, "Anything to return one of Smackdown!'s brightest and most handsome Superstars to the ring, ne?" Edge laughed uneasily, and Kelly flashed her sweetest smile at him, before turning her attention to Sylvan and standing up on tiptoes to laughingly whisper something into his ear. Amanda glowered and sulked further when she saw that her fair-haired French beau was grinning and whispering back into Kelly's ear, sending her into coy peals of giggles while her cheeks colored faintly with a pretty pink blush. Amanda scowled in outrage, ignoring Christian's hopeful smile as he snuck away from the battlefield that was the Twisted Thugonomics stage, where Jericho and John were apparently trying to jab each other's eyes out with their respective microphones. Before the new IC Champ could scuttle over in her direction to adoringly spoil her rotten, the blue-eyed Verbena girl had stalked off to where Kelly had gathered around herself a circle of admiring men--Amanda's admiring men! Rushing up to René, who seemed to have thankfully avoided Kelly's sphere of influence--at least for the moment--Amanda quickly hooked her arm through his and spoke up haughtily, "Let's get away from here before that ungainly Yankee corrupts all of us with her utter lack of decorum!"

Kelly failed to even hear her remark, or to point out that she actually was from the South whereas with Amanda it was just wishful thinking, because at that moment, the wide doors to the amphitheater were slammed open with a clang, drawing everyone's attention, including the bickering John and Jericho's. Randy stood at the forefront of the group underneath the arching doorway, an exhausted and somewhat pitiful look on his face, his hair sticking up in rather unattractive clumps and his clothing completely disheveled to match his haggard expression.
"SARS Race...Scarlett O'Hara...Scarlet Rage...the band from Hell...has finally arrived!" he announced in a tired croak. And with that, his eyes rolled into his head, and he collapsed in a heap in front of Stephanie's two-hundred-dollar designer pumps. Behind him, Deron was trying to discourage a pair of particularly feisty groupies from pinching him in a rather inappropriate area, as Camryn and Shannon yelled at their lawyers via cell phone for failing to prevent Officer Brest from suing their collective asses off, Rusty's eyes lit up when she spotted something--or someone--in the room and quietly snuck off...and Jeff and Raven continued to dreamily repeat their respective names to each other.