Tell Me Why
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kurt!"
Chris Irvine ran to catch up with his friend, who was walking quickly away from the gate they had just walked out of. Kurt stopped and turned around, blinking at him, smiling.
"Hey, buddy. That was really strange, wasn't it?" Chris was panting slightly.
"Yeah," Kurt agreed, nodding fervently. "I can't believe that the stupid arena didn't have a backup generator. It's a good thing the show was just beginning to start and we just got the tail end of the earthquake."
"Yeah," Chris replied, shaking his head. "I've got a killer headache. Imagine what would've happened if it had happened at another time. It's a good thing nobody was hurt. But this is the last time I'm coming back to California."
Kurt laughed. "Let's go, Chris. We both need some sleep after that."
Chris nodded, rubbing his head gingerly, and then alternating with his upper arm. "Yeah, let's go. I could kill for a bed right now."
Kurt batted his eyes. "Why, you make me think you have some cruel intentions with that bed."
Chris nodded seductively. "Let's go, baby, come on, baby, take it off."
They went down the stone walkway, Chris rubbing his arm and head in beat.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The plane rumbled and grumbled and growled. Chris could almost feel the pain riding over on him, overwhelming him. He groaned softly, muffling the sounds with his cheap airline pillow. His companion looked at him peculiarly and gave a short grunt of disgust. Hitting the pillow against his seat, Chris rested his head, looking out at the ground below through the window. Not a very good day, he thought miserably, for an earthquake. He had another show in ten hours and four would be spent on the God-forsaken airplane.
He tried to sleep, to fall into nothing. And he did.
~*~*~The air was glimpsing, red and sweaty. He could hear the heartbeat in his ears, thudding in a roar that was overwhelming still. The air was musty, mist clinging around the branches, heavy and thunderous. The grass was springy, dewy from the rain that had just fallen. Trees kneeled over, dead, spent, broken.
He could hear a dog barking in the distance, the barks heavy and sickening. He could hear cries and whispers, flooding his ears, his heart. Screams came from behind him and he turned. Horrified, he looked into nothing, nothing except a mystical blue mist that seemed to smile at him tauntingly.
"Remember," a little voice in his head whispered as he walked backward, a dog suddenly leaping for him, fangs bared, claws outstretched. He screamed into nothing. "Remember," the voice said, "when we used to call Rival Ranger?"~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*Kurt~*~*~*~
His head felt a little fuzzy, but he expected it to, with the earthquake and all that jazz. It had been a killer, the earthquake and then the blackout. He had been warming up for his match, but when the earth had started to move, and the lights gone out, that had been forgotten. Stupid lights with no backup generator, very smart.
Kurt entered the Greyhound bus, heading to the back quickly, gaining the prized last seat and shoving his small carry on bag into the overhead storage compartment. He removed his book, a heavy book of poetry his wife wanted him to read, and his CD player with its compilation of Bach, Mozart, and Haydn. Settling into his seat, he felt the pain in his head rise a notch, but nothing too bad.
Putting his earphones on, he leaned against the window, opened the book, and intended to start reading. Instead, he fell into the abyss of sleep.
~*~*~* The mist was heavy purple, but caressing, gentle. He could taste the fragrance of wine in his mouth. Steady breezes paraded him, gentle, loving. He was looking at the ocean, its waves crashing steadily onto the beach, a beautiful melody of sound.
The sand was warm and grainy underneath his toes, but he welcomed it. This really was wonderful. He could die here if he wanted to. All he had to do was call. ~*~*~*
~*~*~*
"Take it off, Kurt, take it off," Chris told Kurt, rolling his eyes. "Baby, give it to me."
"You know you want me," Kurt said, his eyes fluttering invitingly. "You know you want this burning hunk of love."
"You boys disturb me," a new voice said. They both turned to look and see Jay Reso come from down the hall, his face twisted. "You don't even invite me into your sex party."
"It wasn't a sex party," Chris said defensively. "But we can make it one if you'd like."
"Count me in," Jay said, winking. "You know I'm a god in bed. Ask Adam, he knows."
"You know, that's just too sick for words, Jay," Kurt said, his voice in mock disgust.
Chris smiled at them, but the pain in his head was too much. He wanted to sit down. He felt dizzy; the world was spinning crazily in cartwheels, small, but still cartwheels. Kurt and Jay went on with their usual banter; Chris lay in the web that his mind spun with the input from his eyes.
He wanted to collapse, break down. Ever since the earthquake, he hadn't been right. Nothing had seemed the same. It was just too much. It was horrible, these vicious headaches and these terrible, terrible dreams. He couldn't remember them, but last night he had woken up screaming in the dark at some imaginary threat.
He tried to remember, to recall, but all he had was the empty dark blank. He wanted to look at Kurt and ask him for answers, but of course, no answers could be made to fit his dreams.
"Chris?"
Kurt's probing voice brought him back to life, woke him. "Yes, Kurt?"
"Are you alright? You look sick."
Chris tried to smile and wave it up, but suddenly he felt vomit rise in his throat violently. He staggered forward, grabbing for the wall, trying to hold it back. Sudden pain rose in his head, heavy and thick and black. His eyes rolled and he felt starved and dehydrated. His eyes started to slip close as the pain in his head intensified.
"Chris! Chris, what's wrong?"
"Buddy, what's up? Chris, Chris, Kurt, grab him!"
He felt listless, lifeless, dead. The pain in his head was shocking. He started to struggle to scream.
"Chris, what are you saying? Buddy, c'mon, what's wrong?"
"He's sick, moron! We've got to get him to the medical office pronto!"
"Chris! Listen to me-"
"Idiot, just move him before I kick you!"
"Kick me? You asshole, that's the last time I invite you to join my sex party!"
Chris could hear the words and he found it funny. He wanted to laugh, but a scream started to erupt, in gulps and cries.
"Hey, what's wrong? Guys?"
He recognized the voice dimly as Stephanie McMahon's.
"Steph! Go and grab the med trainer. Chris is really sick. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he's not talking to us!"
"What's wrong?"
"I just told you, I don't know! Get Dan! Go now!"
His eyes started to slip shut, shut, and closed. He slipped into darkness.
~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kurt!"
Chris Irvine ran to catch up with his friend, who was walking quickly away from the gate they had just walked out of. Kurt stopped and turned around, blinking at him, smiling.
"Hey, buddy. That was really strange, wasn't it?" Chris was panting slightly.
"Yeah," Kurt agreed, nodding fervently. "I can't believe that the stupid arena didn't have a backup generator. It's a good thing the show was just beginning to start and we just got the tail end of the earthquake."
"Yeah," Chris replied, shaking his head. "I've got a killer headache. Imagine what would've happened if it had happened at another time. It's a good thing nobody was hurt. But this is the last time I'm coming back to California."
Kurt laughed. "Let's go, Chris. We both need some sleep after that."
Chris nodded, rubbing his head gingerly, and then alternating with his upper arm. "Yeah, let's go. I could kill for a bed right now."
Kurt batted his eyes. "Why, you make me think you have some cruel intentions with that bed."
Chris nodded seductively. "Let's go, baby, come on, baby, take it off."
They went down the stone walkway, Chris rubbing his arm and head in beat.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The plane rumbled and grumbled and growled. Chris could almost feel the pain riding over on him, overwhelming him. He groaned softly, muffling the sounds with his cheap airline pillow. His companion looked at him peculiarly and gave a short grunt of disgust. Hitting the pillow against his seat, Chris rested his head, looking out at the ground below through the window. Not a very good day, he thought miserably, for an earthquake. He had another show in ten hours and four would be spent on the God-forsaken airplane.
He tried to sleep, to fall into nothing. And he did.
~*~*~The air was glimpsing, red and sweaty. He could hear the heartbeat in his ears, thudding in a roar that was overwhelming still. The air was musty, mist clinging around the branches, heavy and thunderous. The grass was springy, dewy from the rain that had just fallen. Trees kneeled over, dead, spent, broken.
He could hear a dog barking in the distance, the barks heavy and sickening. He could hear cries and whispers, flooding his ears, his heart. Screams came from behind him and he turned. Horrified, he looked into nothing, nothing except a mystical blue mist that seemed to smile at him tauntingly.
"Remember," a little voice in his head whispered as he walked backward, a dog suddenly leaping for him, fangs bared, claws outstretched. He screamed into nothing. "Remember," the voice said, "when we used to call Rival Ranger?"~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*Kurt~*~*~*~
His head felt a little fuzzy, but he expected it to, with the earthquake and all that jazz. It had been a killer, the earthquake and then the blackout. He had been warming up for his match, but when the earth had started to move, and the lights gone out, that had been forgotten. Stupid lights with no backup generator, very smart.
Kurt entered the Greyhound bus, heading to the back quickly, gaining the prized last seat and shoving his small carry on bag into the overhead storage compartment. He removed his book, a heavy book of poetry his wife wanted him to read, and his CD player with its compilation of Bach, Mozart, and Haydn. Settling into his seat, he felt the pain in his head rise a notch, but nothing too bad.
Putting his earphones on, he leaned against the window, opened the book, and intended to start reading. Instead, he fell into the abyss of sleep.
~*~*~* The mist was heavy purple, but caressing, gentle. He could taste the fragrance of wine in his mouth. Steady breezes paraded him, gentle, loving. He was looking at the ocean, its waves crashing steadily onto the beach, a beautiful melody of sound.
The sand was warm and grainy underneath his toes, but he welcomed it. This really was wonderful. He could die here if he wanted to. All he had to do was call. ~*~*~*
~*~*~*
"Take it off, Kurt, take it off," Chris told Kurt, rolling his eyes. "Baby, give it to me."
"You know you want me," Kurt said, his eyes fluttering invitingly. "You know you want this burning hunk of love."
"You boys disturb me," a new voice said. They both turned to look and see Jay Reso come from down the hall, his face twisted. "You don't even invite me into your sex party."
"It wasn't a sex party," Chris said defensively. "But we can make it one if you'd like."
"Count me in," Jay said, winking. "You know I'm a god in bed. Ask Adam, he knows."
"You know, that's just too sick for words, Jay," Kurt said, his voice in mock disgust.
Chris smiled at them, but the pain in his head was too much. He wanted to sit down. He felt dizzy; the world was spinning crazily in cartwheels, small, but still cartwheels. Kurt and Jay went on with their usual banter; Chris lay in the web that his mind spun with the input from his eyes.
He wanted to collapse, break down. Ever since the earthquake, he hadn't been right. Nothing had seemed the same. It was just too much. It was horrible, these vicious headaches and these terrible, terrible dreams. He couldn't remember them, but last night he had woken up screaming in the dark at some imaginary threat.
He tried to remember, to recall, but all he had was the empty dark blank. He wanted to look at Kurt and ask him for answers, but of course, no answers could be made to fit his dreams.
"Chris?"
Kurt's probing voice brought him back to life, woke him. "Yes, Kurt?"
"Are you alright? You look sick."
Chris tried to smile and wave it up, but suddenly he felt vomit rise in his throat violently. He staggered forward, grabbing for the wall, trying to hold it back. Sudden pain rose in his head, heavy and thick and black. His eyes rolled and he felt starved and dehydrated. His eyes started to slip close as the pain in his head intensified.
"Chris! Chris, what's wrong?"
"Buddy, what's up? Chris, Chris, Kurt, grab him!"
He felt listless, lifeless, dead. The pain in his head was shocking. He started to struggle to scream.
"Chris, what are you saying? Buddy, c'mon, what's wrong?"
"He's sick, moron! We've got to get him to the medical office pronto!"
"Chris! Listen to me-"
"Idiot, just move him before I kick you!"
"Kick me? You asshole, that's the last time I invite you to join my sex party!"
Chris could hear the words and he found it funny. He wanted to laugh, but a scream started to erupt, in gulps and cries.
"Hey, what's wrong? Guys?"
He recognized the voice dimly as Stephanie McMahon's.
"Steph! Go and grab the med trainer. Chris is really sick. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he's not talking to us!"
"What's wrong?"
"I just told you, I don't know! Get Dan! Go now!"
His eyes started to slip shut, shut, and closed. He slipped into darkness.
~*~*~*~*