A/N: I posted a new storyyyyy. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it yet, so you should read it and tell me. It's quite different, so…yeah.
"Come on guys, this isn't funny!" John whined, stomping his foot like a whiny four year old that was denied cookies before dinner. He looked around the room and looked each of the men in front of him in the eye. Chris Jericho had led him into asking Randy Orton and Triple H for relationship advice.
John had just finished explaining everything to the men in the room with him. Randy Orton was biting his lip and trying not to laugh at his friend's idiocy. Triple H was staring at John with is jaw dropped. Chris was leaning against the locker, snickering to himself.
"Damnit, Randy!" John exclaimed, still not getting over Randy's reaction. "At least put your damn pants on!" John said, pointing to the denim in Randy's hands.
"Hey, it's easy access," Randy replied, pointing to the wrestling trunks he was wearing. "How do you think I get so much more than you?" Randy asked, folding his pants up and putting them back in his suitcase.
"You guys are both fucking retarded," Triple H said, shaking his head and leaving the room.
"Alright, since Randy it too busy admiring his thighs…" John said, rolling his eyes. Randy was standing in front of the full length mirror, staring at himself. "Chris, how long do we have until show time?"
"Eh, like three hours or something," Chris said, looking at his watch.
"Well," John said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, "is there any chance that you can get Brittany down here without Danielle knowing?"
"Why can't you call her yourself?" Chris asked.
"Because the bitch hates me," John stated.
"Don't call her a bitch, dude. She's not."
"Yeah, not to you," John huffed.
"Well, I suppose I could ask her. But why don't you want Danielle here? You do realize she's the one you're trying to get back, right?" Chris questioned.
"Yeah, but…just get Brittany here."
"Fine," Chris sighed, pulling the keys to his rental truck out of his pocket. He twirled them around his index finger and said, "See you later."
"Answer, damnit…" Chris mumbled into his phone, only hearing the ringing tone as he called Brittany.
"Chris? Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Brittany asked from the other line.
"Well, yeah, but um…"
"What's up?"
"I don't know how to really say this without you freaking out."
"I don't freak out easily, Chris," Brittany assured him.
"Yeah, right…"
"I heard that."
"Okay, fine. Here it is. John wants you to come down to the arena tonight."
"Bye, Chris."
"No! Don't hang up. Please…"
"What sort of stupid scheme did he concoct this time?" Brittany wondered. She knew there was no end to John's stupidity.
"I don't know. I'm just the messenger. Will you please just come with me?" Chris pleaded.
"Fine."
"Just one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Don't kill the messenger."
"Alright, what do you want, Cena?" Brittany asked, storming up to the former WWE Champion in the hallway.
"Did Danielle see you leave? Does she know you're here?" John asked in a hurry.
"No and no. She was sleeping. I left her a note saying that Chris has the night off and we went out for some drinks. Satisfied?" Brittany snapped, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently.
"No, actually, I called you here to ask you a favor."
"You want me to—Why isn't that man wearing pants?" Brittany asked. Randy Orton had just jogged past them in his pre match warm up, wearing just his wrestling trunks.
"You don't know Randy very well, do you?"
"No, but I should…" Brittany sighed, staring at Randy's figure going the other way.
"Anyways, about that favor…" John said, snapping Brittany out of Randy World and back into reality.
"What of it?"
"I need you to figure out all of these for me," he said, handing her the piece of paper he had earlier.
Brittany unfolded it and looked it over. "Danielle's favorite color…favorite number…favorite television show…Shouldn't you know these already? How long were you two together?"
"I have a bad memory," John blushed.
"Yeah, you also have a bad…never mind. What's in it for me?"
"Well you pretty much already have Chris so…"
"Forget it, John. You're useless."
"But are you going to do it?"
Brittany let out a heavy sigh. "I guess."
This guy has to know at least half of these already, Brittany thought, looking over the list. It read:
1. Danielle's favorite color?
2. Danielle's favorite number?
3. Danielle's favorite television show?
4. Danielle's favorite type of cheese?
5. Danielle's favorite type of weather?
6. Danielle's favorite type of font?
7. Danielle's favorite book?
8. Danielle's favorite animal?
9. Danielle's favorite food?
10. Danielle's favorite Disney Princess?
11. Danielle's favorite movie?
12. Danielle's favorite type of computer?
13. Danielle's favorite childhood memory?
14. Danielle's favorite song?
15. Danielle's favorite season?
16. Danielle's favorite flower?
17. Danielle's favorite name?
18. Danielle's favorite relative?
19. Danielle's favorite radio station?
20. Danielle's favorite drink?
"Favorite font? Why the fuck…" Brittany whispered, reading the list in full.
John Cena is one deranged little man.