Differences
PG-13
A/N: Just some burning at the Jericho/Trish angle they're putting up. Ooh, what fun. :) Dedication to those who ABHOR it, and Amanda, my best friend, who hasn't a clue about wrestling still. Written in Stephanie's POV, or rather, alot of the anti-pairing's POV. Based on the recent 24/11 Raw.
After a good bath, a nice cold beverage was just too good for me to pass up.
Tapping my fingers in a rhythm, I realise that I've forgotten something. My eyes dart around as I heartily down my refreshing apple juice, looking for something that would remind me of that something.
The remote.
What wonders it did to me. I could've just worshipped it in my times of need, providing me with countless hours of brain-pleasing moments with just one little push of a button. Ok, ok, I'm acting like the typical male, who can't take their eyes off the TVGuide, who can't quite figure out if they wanted to watch wrestling, or Monday Night Football. That's right! SpikeTV. Raw is on tonight.
I sit in my chair with the glass set beside me on a little table. This is great, because the TV is only a foot away, and I can watch the degress of my once arch-rival Bischoff with much delight. Alright, I admit, Smackdown! is not as half as entertaining as Raw now that most of the best players are away. But guilty conscience is what I have learned to conquer as a McMahon.
The screen is a blur as that stupid wheel of his spins around, and the first matches are set. I scoff at the revelation, and I wouldn't be most surprised if the back of the wheel had a midget on a stepstool, twirling it like a little umbrella. Creative my ass. So it was coincidentally Batista and Flair versus Michaels and Jericho. Insistently, I told myself that the pain Flair deserves is already in all the peroxide that he puts in his hair. I hope it stings like five bitches, you SOB slimeball. And Jericho, good for nothing... good for nothing... I suddenly can't think of what to say.
Dammit.
So anyway, I continue watching through the hour. I'm a bit sour at Matt's transfer to Raw because the roster on Smackdown! is as bare as the backside of a baboon, and I can't do anything about it. The cage match was alright, but nothing beats Eric's face grating against it like cheddar cheese. I'd better stop talking about him. I might have to grate my own face if I even had to think about him again, in addition to his butt-monkey face on TV.
I continue critizing every detail of the show until I see an actual midget being pursued by Rosey. I think to myself again about the one behind the wheel, then start critizing silently again, frowning and pouting limitlessly to my own liking. I think those were one of my silly rejected ideas in the past.
I laugh at Matt's reaction to 'strange bedfellows'. Then again, why am I not surprised that nobody really understood the concept? I sit up a bit, eyeing and sipping my juice, halfway scowling at Trish Stratus in the rectangular box. I audibly 'hmph' at her, and quoting from Jackie from That 70's Show, I wish I could pop that inflatable bitch and just watch her fly around the room. Never liked her, never will. Now, I sip my drink in millilitres, intently watching. Something's going to happen, my intuition tells me, and I'm not going to like it.
Then Inflatable Barbie meets Y2J: the Teenage Years.
Ugh, that slut! That trashy, no good slut! Her beady eyes all over my Jeri... Over not-my-Jericho. If you wanted to change the stipulations, you could just SLEEP with the Manager! Isn't that what you do all the time? Angst-filled me stares at the screen wide-eyed, then bug-eyed, when she kisses him. Raw is live. It is happening now.
I instinctively spit all my juice onto the television, whether it's because of shock, or to save myself from choking to death, but I quickly fetch some kitchen towels and wipe off the screen in record time. Nobody kisses Chris Jericho except... Someone else. My jaw drops to the floor as she tells him that she would do something very nice for him after the show if he aided HBK.
What kind of f-ing line is THAT?
As the show continues I see Chris at the Manager's office again. When Bischoff mentions,
"You must really have fallen for her"
I blow my top and scream at the top of my lungs, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
I'm quite sure in a few seconds time, the little old lady living across my apartment will knock on my door and tell me about using foul language so liberally. I simply do not give a fuck. Seriously.
Jericho exits and he looks confused. "I hate you!" I shout, but no louder than the obscenity I yelled earlier. "I hate you, you bastard!"
There is a rap on my door.
"I don't CARE, because my boyfriend is an idiot on TV!" I scream, then realise that I had called Chris Jericho my boyfriend. I sit back down on my sofa immediately, considerably quieter. The rapping on my door stops. The lady must've gone to see who is my boyfriend on the television. The thing was, I have no boyfriend at all, and I said what I said. I cool down for a bit, then my blood pressure rises to the heights of Mt. Vesuvius when Trish wins her Bra and Panties match, which I so did not need to see. I wish the RTC had come back to put a sack over the head of Little Miss Skank. I become hotter when Chris is relieved that she wins, and asks if they are still on after the show.
In the last match, I see a bullseye on his forehead as my eyes narrow, just waiting for a right time to send that dagger through time and space into that mark. I hope he drops dead, and I'll never have to see him again.
But as soon as the show ends, I find myself looking into my little book of phone numbers and hammering at the dialing pad furiously. Ooh, I've had it quite up to here. When it starts ringing, I'm just about ready to pop.
"Hello?"
"You bastard! What the hell are you thinking?! I can't believe what a whore you are! Your taste in women is so bad, even I have to put purifying salt in my water to see you with them! Yuck! Gross! And to think you have the nerve to go cheat on me like that, you're some kind of fu---"
"Hey, hey, who is this?"
Unfortunately, there is no 'Stop' button for me when I start to scold and diss. I have to give it to him, because he's still quite patient at this point.
"What do ya mean, have we ever BEEN together? I don't even know you, why are you saying this?" he matches my insults and questions word for word, and he's probably looking like a fool talking so fast.
"Don't you 'I don't even know you', Chris Jericho, because there is only one person who knows the real, smart charismatic you, and I'm ready to kick your sorry ass for it, or I'm not---"
"Stephanie?" he completes, and I shut up instantly. "Hello?" I hear some thwapping sounds, then, "Hello?"
"What?" I snap, knowing that I sound like an absolute child, like the old before-being-boss Stephanie.
"Is that you?"
He sounds like he's going to laugh, and I feel like I'm going to cry, becoming so red in the face for nothing. "It's the Angel of Un-Mercy, who wants to exact fresh vengance upon your filthy head, you low-life."
"Trashbag ho."
My mouth falls open and I roll my eyes, contemplating the situation at the same time. "I hate you."
"What's the deal?"
"You're the ho, acting so mousy over your feelings for Trash Slutus," I admit, toning down. "You're Agent Hobag, satiating your primal lust by nailing blow-ups."
"And you suggest I satiate by who else?" he replies coyly, almost like he's hinting to himself.
"Shut up," I say, "Tell me that you're not going to sleep with her."
"Why? It's my life, I'm boss, and hell, you got no reason to be worried."
I 'hmm' to myself and notice a little bit of 1999's Y2J coming in. "Tell me," I demand.
"Ok, I won't sleep with her. I'm not going to anyway. Not ever. You're right about her alias, though."
"Why not?" This time I sound like I WANT him to do that. Mental note: practise vocal tones.
"Woman, you're seriously a fickle mind." I can hear the smirk over the phone. "Because I'm a wrestler in sports entertainment, and people write lines for me to follow to make a plausible story," he answers. Now I'm embarrassed to the hilt. I kind of forgot about that part. "And also because I think she's got an STD or something."
I nearly smile to myself that he joins in the fun of dissing her. Nearly. "You make me quite sick, JERICHO."
"You make me throw up and have indigestion already, MCMAHON," he stresses the same way I did. Then he softens, "You take care of yourself."
"Yeah, you too." I break my act.
After the pause, he says, "Hey look, I gotta go. Don't get any more STDs that you already have."
"Ugh, please, I won't. The only diseases I'll get is from you." A snicker passes over, and I realise what I've said wrong. "Not that I'll ever---"
"It's okay princess, goodnight."
"Goodnight," I end. The line beeps into my ear.
After that, I feel very much happier. The night outside seems a more appealing dark blue, and the air is a bit fresher. I should really call him more often.
After that, a nice cold milk is too good to pass up.
****
A/N: Yes, I hope I got something across. Just my form of comfort to those who completely hates that angle like I do. Hope you liked it. :)
PG-13
A/N: Just some burning at the Jericho/Trish angle they're putting up. Ooh, what fun. :) Dedication to those who ABHOR it, and Amanda, my best friend, who hasn't a clue about wrestling still. Written in Stephanie's POV, or rather, alot of the anti-pairing's POV. Based on the recent 24/11 Raw.
After a good bath, a nice cold beverage was just too good for me to pass up.
Tapping my fingers in a rhythm, I realise that I've forgotten something. My eyes dart around as I heartily down my refreshing apple juice, looking for something that would remind me of that something.
The remote.
What wonders it did to me. I could've just worshipped it in my times of need, providing me with countless hours of brain-pleasing moments with just one little push of a button. Ok, ok, I'm acting like the typical male, who can't take their eyes off the TVGuide, who can't quite figure out if they wanted to watch wrestling, or Monday Night Football. That's right! SpikeTV. Raw is on tonight.
I sit in my chair with the glass set beside me on a little table. This is great, because the TV is only a foot away, and I can watch the degress of my once arch-rival Bischoff with much delight. Alright, I admit, Smackdown! is not as half as entertaining as Raw now that most of the best players are away. But guilty conscience is what I have learned to conquer as a McMahon.
The screen is a blur as that stupid wheel of his spins around, and the first matches are set. I scoff at the revelation, and I wouldn't be most surprised if the back of the wheel had a midget on a stepstool, twirling it like a little umbrella. Creative my ass. So it was coincidentally Batista and Flair versus Michaels and Jericho. Insistently, I told myself that the pain Flair deserves is already in all the peroxide that he puts in his hair. I hope it stings like five bitches, you SOB slimeball. And Jericho, good for nothing... good for nothing... I suddenly can't think of what to say.
Dammit.
So anyway, I continue watching through the hour. I'm a bit sour at Matt's transfer to Raw because the roster on Smackdown! is as bare as the backside of a baboon, and I can't do anything about it. The cage match was alright, but nothing beats Eric's face grating against it like cheddar cheese. I'd better stop talking about him. I might have to grate my own face if I even had to think about him again, in addition to his butt-monkey face on TV.
I continue critizing every detail of the show until I see an actual midget being pursued by Rosey. I think to myself again about the one behind the wheel, then start critizing silently again, frowning and pouting limitlessly to my own liking. I think those were one of my silly rejected ideas in the past.
I laugh at Matt's reaction to 'strange bedfellows'. Then again, why am I not surprised that nobody really understood the concept? I sit up a bit, eyeing and sipping my juice, halfway scowling at Trish Stratus in the rectangular box. I audibly 'hmph' at her, and quoting from Jackie from That 70's Show, I wish I could pop that inflatable bitch and just watch her fly around the room. Never liked her, never will. Now, I sip my drink in millilitres, intently watching. Something's going to happen, my intuition tells me, and I'm not going to like it.
Then Inflatable Barbie meets Y2J: the Teenage Years.
Ugh, that slut! That trashy, no good slut! Her beady eyes all over my Jeri... Over not-my-Jericho. If you wanted to change the stipulations, you could just SLEEP with the Manager! Isn't that what you do all the time? Angst-filled me stares at the screen wide-eyed, then bug-eyed, when she kisses him. Raw is live. It is happening now.
I instinctively spit all my juice onto the television, whether it's because of shock, or to save myself from choking to death, but I quickly fetch some kitchen towels and wipe off the screen in record time. Nobody kisses Chris Jericho except... Someone else. My jaw drops to the floor as she tells him that she would do something very nice for him after the show if he aided HBK.
What kind of f-ing line is THAT?
As the show continues I see Chris at the Manager's office again. When Bischoff mentions,
"You must really have fallen for her"
I blow my top and scream at the top of my lungs, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
I'm quite sure in a few seconds time, the little old lady living across my apartment will knock on my door and tell me about using foul language so liberally. I simply do not give a fuck. Seriously.
Jericho exits and he looks confused. "I hate you!" I shout, but no louder than the obscenity I yelled earlier. "I hate you, you bastard!"
There is a rap on my door.
"I don't CARE, because my boyfriend is an idiot on TV!" I scream, then realise that I had called Chris Jericho my boyfriend. I sit back down on my sofa immediately, considerably quieter. The rapping on my door stops. The lady must've gone to see who is my boyfriend on the television. The thing was, I have no boyfriend at all, and I said what I said. I cool down for a bit, then my blood pressure rises to the heights of Mt. Vesuvius when Trish wins her Bra and Panties match, which I so did not need to see. I wish the RTC had come back to put a sack over the head of Little Miss Skank. I become hotter when Chris is relieved that she wins, and asks if they are still on after the show.
In the last match, I see a bullseye on his forehead as my eyes narrow, just waiting for a right time to send that dagger through time and space into that mark. I hope he drops dead, and I'll never have to see him again.
But as soon as the show ends, I find myself looking into my little book of phone numbers and hammering at the dialing pad furiously. Ooh, I've had it quite up to here. When it starts ringing, I'm just about ready to pop.
"Hello?"
"You bastard! What the hell are you thinking?! I can't believe what a whore you are! Your taste in women is so bad, even I have to put purifying salt in my water to see you with them! Yuck! Gross! And to think you have the nerve to go cheat on me like that, you're some kind of fu---"
"Hey, hey, who is this?"
Unfortunately, there is no 'Stop' button for me when I start to scold and diss. I have to give it to him, because he's still quite patient at this point.
"What do ya mean, have we ever BEEN together? I don't even know you, why are you saying this?" he matches my insults and questions word for word, and he's probably looking like a fool talking so fast.
"Don't you 'I don't even know you', Chris Jericho, because there is only one person who knows the real, smart charismatic you, and I'm ready to kick your sorry ass for it, or I'm not---"
"Stephanie?" he completes, and I shut up instantly. "Hello?" I hear some thwapping sounds, then, "Hello?"
"What?" I snap, knowing that I sound like an absolute child, like the old before-being-boss Stephanie.
"Is that you?"
He sounds like he's going to laugh, and I feel like I'm going to cry, becoming so red in the face for nothing. "It's the Angel of Un-Mercy, who wants to exact fresh vengance upon your filthy head, you low-life."
"Trashbag ho."
My mouth falls open and I roll my eyes, contemplating the situation at the same time. "I hate you."
"What's the deal?"
"You're the ho, acting so mousy over your feelings for Trash Slutus," I admit, toning down. "You're Agent Hobag, satiating your primal lust by nailing blow-ups."
"And you suggest I satiate by who else?" he replies coyly, almost like he's hinting to himself.
"Shut up," I say, "Tell me that you're not going to sleep with her."
"Why? It's my life, I'm boss, and hell, you got no reason to be worried."
I 'hmm' to myself and notice a little bit of 1999's Y2J coming in. "Tell me," I demand.
"Ok, I won't sleep with her. I'm not going to anyway. Not ever. You're right about her alias, though."
"Why not?" This time I sound like I WANT him to do that. Mental note: practise vocal tones.
"Woman, you're seriously a fickle mind." I can hear the smirk over the phone. "Because I'm a wrestler in sports entertainment, and people write lines for me to follow to make a plausible story," he answers. Now I'm embarrassed to the hilt. I kind of forgot about that part. "And also because I think she's got an STD or something."
I nearly smile to myself that he joins in the fun of dissing her. Nearly. "You make me quite sick, JERICHO."
"You make me throw up and have indigestion already, MCMAHON," he stresses the same way I did. Then he softens, "You take care of yourself."
"Yeah, you too." I break my act.
After the pause, he says, "Hey look, I gotta go. Don't get any more STDs that you already have."
"Ugh, please, I won't. The only diseases I'll get is from you." A snicker passes over, and I realise what I've said wrong. "Not that I'll ever---"
"It's okay princess, goodnight."
"Goodnight," I end. The line beeps into my ear.
After that, I feel very much happier. The night outside seems a more appealing dark blue, and the air is a bit fresher. I should really call him more often.
After that, a nice cold milk is too good to pass up.
****
A/N: Yes, I hope I got something across. Just my form of comfort to those who completely hates that angle like I do. Hope you liked it. :)