Uncommon Sense Chapter 1
By Batistafan
Rating - NC-17 for violence
Distribution: If you would like to add this story to your site that's fine, just let me know.
Main Characters include: Batista, Triple H, Chris Jericho, Christy Hemme, Nancy Adams (Original Character).
Disclaimer: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains violence, coarse language, as well as mature sexual situations (some may consider explicit), and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.
I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.
I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.
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Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.
-Thomas A. Edison,US inventor (1847 - 1931)
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Walkie-Talkie in hand, Nancy strode down the long hallway, weaving in and out of the throng of Wrestlers, RAW staffers and arena attendants, making her way through the congestion with nothing on her mind but acquiring a cup of coffee strong enough to melt a spoon. She responded in kind to the occasional accolade thrown her direction by a Diva referring to the swimsuits she had designed and sewn for the 'Viva Las Divas' photo shoot the previous week. She smiled and returned the friendly chatter but never once broke her stride.
"Hey, about that silk skirt…" a very rushed but patient Stacy Keibler caught up with Nancy and fell in step beside her. "You think maybe you'll have it for me tonight? I know I got it to you sort of late." She flashed Nancy a weak smile. "Pleeeze."
"It's a hand stitch job….literally." Nancy held up her injured, band-aid covered finger "I can have it for you tomorrow at best."
"Sounds good" Stacy smiled and headed off in the other direction.
The refreshment table in her sights, Nancy picked up her pace. The soft static of the walkie-talkie crackled, and she adjusted the squelch, pulled it up to her ear and listened.
"Nancy, what's your twenty?" She rolled her eyes at the sound of Max's voice. He insisted on speaking as if they were two secret agents staking out a federal suspect. It gave him a sense of importance she surmised, and that was probably why he did it all of the time.
Knowing that in requesting her 'Twenty' that he had been asking where she was…Nancy decided to play clever. "What's my what? " She snickered.
"FYI…" Max said his voice barely more than a panicked whisper. "Bischoff was in here, looking for that shirt he left for you last week." She could sense the tension in Max's voice.
Nancy listened as she stood in line behind a sound-man, waiting for her turn with the coffee. "Wait a minute…that shirt's on the rack…it's finished." She furrowed her brow and rolled her hands, gesturing as she spoke. "It's got a grey disposable garment bag over it…last Monday's date is on it and his initials are below the date"
"Noooo, it's not." Max informed his voice laced with alarm, as he dragged out the word 'No' as if to drive his point home. "Uh…wait a second…I know what happened." He said hesitantly.
Nancy was sure that if she could have seen his face it would be ashen. She could imagine him hiding behind the ironing board at this very minute. "Max!" She barked in frustration. "What did you do?" She glared at the walkie-talkie, as if it were the offending party.
"I think…that when I let the laundry dude in here to get the stuff to take to the cleaners…"
She didn't even let him finish, knowing already that the shirt had somehow been swept up in the laundering. "Max…" She ground out in frustration.
"Don't get your blood pressure up!" He said defending his error "It'll be in Dallas for RAW next week…it's not lost…we know where it is." He said hopefully in an attempt to avert her panic.
"Next week is not tonight!" She blurted enunciating each word carefully as if she were talking to a child. The static crackled and the walkie-talkie whined, forcing her to adjust the squelch again.
"You're right…he is looking for you tonight…and he is pretty pissed. In that special kind of 'Bischoff-pissed-off' way." Max stammered. "Can I still have that coffee?"
Deciding that trying to respond with any sense of calm was distinctly impossible, she jammed the knob all the way to the left turning the walkie-talkie off. Nancy snatched two Styrofoam cups from the stack of paper products lined up like obedient soldiers, and whipped the brim of the first under the coffee well's nozzle. Steam rose in tempting swirls above the line of dark liquid as she filled each cup in turn, the smell was intoxicating and temporarily took her mind off of the fact that Eric Bischoff's shirt was missing-in-action.
Both lidded cups in hand, with the walkie-talkie tucked awkwardly beneath her chin, Nancy proceeded back down the hall toward the wardrobe room, hoping against hope that she could get back there and find a suitable shirt for Eric Bischoff before he managed to find her. Trying to keep the walkie-talkie braced under her chin was forcing her head to tilt downward and hopelessly obstructing her full view of what was in front of her. Rounding the next bend in the hallway, unable to see more than a foot or two, she found herself slamming into Christy Hemme, who was also not looking, but instead hanging adoringly on the arm of the 'World's Heavyweight Champion', Dave Batista.
The two women collided. Both cups tipped forward upon impact, lids popping off…and both cups managed to spill every last ounce of their contents directly onto the front of Christy's powder-blue, lace cami-top, as well as Nancy's white button-up blouse. The walkie-talkie fell in turn, clattering to the floor in the middle of a coffee puddle. Christy's cry of surprise resounded, as her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfectly round little 'O'.
A pregnant pause ensued, and Nancy suddenly felt very out of place. More than the stain, it was the heat of the beverages that worried Nancy, and she used her hands in an awkward attempt to wipe the rivulets of coffee from the Diva's perfectly tanned pair of bare legs. Christy stepped back apparently disgusted with the whole incident. Her face was screwed into a scowl and a huff of frustration escaped her lips.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Christy." Nancy looked at the front of her own white shirt which had clearly been the brunt of a great deal of the backsplash.
Christy closed her eyes, shook her head, and after pursing her full lips together, let them come open, making a tiny little popping noise. Her lips then formed a pout, and Nancy waited, half expecting the Diva to stomp her foot and flounce off down the hallway.
"Not a problem…" Christy said straining to be calm, her irritancy apparent in the tone of her voice. "I'll just change clothes…again." She never even raised her voice, didn't have to, the low and menacing pitch was scathing in and of itself.
Nancy watched as Christy turned and spoke to Dave Batista. "Could you excuse me? I'll just be a minute." She shot a frosty glare over her shoulder at Nancy and stalked off down the hall somehow still managing to look elegant and glamorous even with coffee dripping down her body.
Dave Batista watched the whole scene unfold in front of him, narrowly able to suppress the grin that played at his lips. It had been an accident, could have happened to anyone of a dozen people in the hall, but it had happened to Christy. He knew she would be annoyed for a good portion of their date. Pushing his Dolce sunglasses up onto his brow ridge, he bent over to retrieve the fallen walkie-talkie. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket and wiped the receiver, but before he could hand it back to the woman, Eric Bischoff came storming around the corner, hell bent for leather, his angry gaze locked like a heat seeking missile, directly on…her.
"Well…glad you could show up tonight." The sarcasm spilled out of his mouth like acid. "Where the hell is my shirt?" He braced one hand on his hip waiting for the answer.
Nancy turned around to fully face him. "Mr. Bischoff," She began, lacing her fingers together nervously, "I thought that we had put it on the rack. I-I mean it's finished and everything, but what happened was…"
He cut her off with a flourish of his hand. "Looks like I'm not the only one who needs a different shirt." He glared down at the dark spatter on the front of Nancy's white button-up blouse. She could have been mistaken but she thought that perhaps his stare remained there a bit too long.
"Tell you what," Eric said. "I'm on in the ring in ten minutes…so if I don't have a dark gray oxford, similar to the one I left for you to alter last week, in my office in two minutes…then you're fired." He cast a questioning look at Batista and then turned to walk away. "Oh and by the way…" He said over his shoulder. "Go change your shirt, you look like hell." He held two fingers of his left hand up and silently mouthed the word 'two'.
Nancy's shoulders slumped in disappointment. She let out a sigh of irritation and faced Dave Batista, who was holding her walkie-talkie with a humorous grin still tugging gently at the corners of his mouth. His veiled amusement annoyed her.
"You probably need this." Batista said holding the walkie-talkie forward. Strangely he felt a tiny bit sorry for the woman in front of him, but something about the look in her eyes when she snatched the walkie-talkie out of his hand made him think differently.
"Yeah, thanks." She snapped succinctly, stomping past him. She had retreated so quickly she never noticed the amused grin that suddenly split into an ear to ear smile as he tapped his sunglasses back down into place on the bridge of his nose, nor did she notice the admiration that flashed across his face as he contemplated the spicy encounter. Strangely, as he turned on his heel to find Christy, he realized he wasn't nearly as eager to go to dinner with her as he had been only minutes earlier. And as enthusiastic as Dave was to find out how this confrontation between the unknown woman and Bischoff played out, he had made a promise to show Christy Hemme the Las Vegas sights and whether he wanted to or not, a promise was a promise. He stuffed the coffee covered hankie in his pant pocket and went off to find her.
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