I'm sorry to say the review amounts have significantly slowed. I don't know why that is—maybe it's just I've been taking so long. Writer's block has been stalking me since this story began, and it hit again with this chapter, this time with a steel chair. But I kicked out, and I Pedigreed and Sweet Chin Music'd its sorry ass. But even if there's not as many as before, I'm still getting more reviews than I ever have before. Heh, at 135 reviews and counting, I'm not complaining. Thanks, guys. :D
I actually began this chapter a while ago, back when we were still in the 'Mr. McMahon likes cocks' phase. Obviously, I got stuck. But, as I said, I kicked writer's block's ass, so I finished the chapter now. I did it mostly for myself—amusing myself, you know—but I'll give it to you anyway, in case anyone's interested.
For the second time in as many hours, Vincent Kennedy McMahon wondered what in all the hells he had done to deserve this.
He was supposed to be the one torturing helpless superstars, not the other way around. DX as adults were bad enough—now they, and just about everyone else, were five-year-old children. Children. Maybe it was only a nightmare—surely things like this could not happen in the real world—but it was a damn long one. And whether this was dreamland or nightmare-land, it was real enough. His headache, which was milder now but not entirely gone, was testimony enough.
Perhaps he shouldn't have eaten all those hot wings before going to sleep. Maybe then he would be having one of his usual 'take-over-the-world-and-make-wrestlers-do-hard-labor' dreams. Yes. That sounded very good right about now.
"Mr. McMahon? Big Oily Guy?"
Vince lifted his head from his desk, fighting the urge to scream and pummel the eight who stood before his desk, peering at him curiously.
Triple H and Cena had hoisted Michaels up onto the desk, and were holding him there, one hand under each of his legs, the other on his back. Edge stood on Triple H's other side, looking over the desk at Vince enquiringly. Lita was at his side, her arms crossed, regarding Vince with the same questioning expression. Orton and Undertaker stood on either side of Edge and Lita. Orton leaned forward on one elbow, Undertaker beside him, peering inquiringly at Vince over the desk. Mysterio had pushed himself right onto the desk, and was now sitting cross-legged on the desktop, regarding Vince with those impossibly large, impossibly bright eyes.
"How did you get in here?" the Chairman breathed, forcing his fists to unclench.
"The door was open," Orton said simply. Vince's eye twitched.
"Mr. Coach—" Shawn began.
"—said you like—" John continued.
"—cocks. Is that true?" Triple H finished. The seven leaned in to hear the answer, evidently excited.
Rey clapped excitedly and leaned closer as well. "Wike cwocks?" he questioned.
That did it. Poor Vincent Kennedy McMahon could take no more. Still twitching, his hands balled into fists, the Chairman of the WWE promptly fainted. He fell backwards in the chair, and lay sprawled out on the ground. Shawn, Edge, Lita, Triple H, 'Taker, Orton, and Cena blinked down at him, slightly bemused, while Rey only giggled.
"Was it something I said?" Shawn asked. The others shrugged.
Shawn frowned, and leapt down from his perch atop the desk. He went around the desk to where Vince lay, unconscious. He seated himself beside the Chairman, resting his chin in his hand, regarding the older McMahon thoughtfully. "Do you think he likes cocks?" he questioned, turning to the others.
Triple H crossed his arms and contemplatively rubbed his chin, considering Vince also. "I think he does," he said at last, and nodded. "Yeah. I think he's definitely the type to like cocks."
"Bwig Oiwy Gwy wike cwocks," Rey agreed from atop the desk.
"Maybe we should get him some. Maybe he'll feel better if we do," John suggested, sitting down next to Shawn.
Triple H seated himself at Shawn's other side, looking thoughtful. "Do you think there'd be any around?"
"Maybe," Orton said, and turned to Undertaker. "He would have some around, right? I mean, if he likes them so much…"
'Taker nodded. "Yeah. He'd have some around."
"What are cocks, anyway?" Lita questioned.
"Boy chickens," the five boys replied at once.
Edge started, and his eyes widened. "Ch-chickens?" he echoed fearfully, backing up, his face all eyes. "W-we ha-have to f-find ch-chickens?" He suddenly—though not so unexpectedly—burst into tears. "I-I don't w-want to f-find ch-ch-chickens!" he wailed, sobbing uncontrollably. Lita, worried, put her arms around him, and hugged him briefly.
Alarmed, Randy went to him immediately, slipping an arm around Edge's shoulders. "Hey," he said, rubbing his back soothingly. "They're not chickens, they're roosters, OK?"
Edge looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "R-really?"
"Really. OK?" Lita said, and held him tightly for a moment.
Edge sniffed, brushing away his tears, and nodded. "O-OK."
"Baby," Cena and Triple H scoffed, looking at Edge with identical expressions of disdain. Shawn slapped both their knees, glaring at them briefly. Both shrugged and looked innocently at him.
"All right," Undertaker said decisively, "let's go find Big Oily Guy some cocks."
"Yeah!" the other seven proclaimed, throwing their fists into the air.
…
Kane had a problem. Five problems, to be more precise. Five jumping, green problems. Five jumping, green, annoying problems he would have to take care of very soon, before they drove him insane.
"Fairies," he muttered darkly, and shook his head. He'd never liked fairies. Little flying monsters were all they were when you got right down to it. In this case, little flying green monsters. Kane detested the color green. Greatly detested the color green.
The fairies in question were five jumping five-year-olds who called themselves the Spirit Squad, four of which were currently laughing and leaping in circles around the small, masked boy dressed in red and black, who sat moodily in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. The fifth, Mikey, was sitting on the couch across the room, watching with amusement, a jar of pickles in his lap.
Kane growled under his breath as the four Spirit Squad members continued to jump around him, taunting him and laughing. Kane was no stranger to this kind of treatment, as he had a brother who enjoyed teasing him in any way, shape, or form, and could handle it—but they were doing something else, something utterly unacceptable.
They were trying to take his rubber ducky.
The aforementioned rubber ducky was tucked safely in the crook of his arm, but they had been grabbing at it since they had begun taunting him. Kane would not stand for this. No one touched Bobby.
No one.
…
Triple H gripped the doorknob, and turned to the others. His expression was dogged. He looked at Shawn, and nodded. Shawn returned the gesture, and placed his hand over The Game's. He turned to the others with an identical set expression on his face. Cena joined them, placing his hand over Shawn's, reflecting the same look.
Triple H glared at him a moment, and laid his other hand over Cena's, turning back to the others with a scoff. Cena gave him a hostile look, obviously thinking something along the lines of: oh no, you don't. He then proceeded to place his other hand over H's. H instantly slipped his hand out from under Shawn's, and slapped it over Cena's. Cena responded without hesitation, doing the same with his own. They went back and forth for a few moments, slapping their hands over each other's on Shawn's, glaring holes in one another.
Randy locked eyes with Undertaker briefly, and they both exchanged amused glances with Edge and Lita. Edge rolled his eyes, and Randy, 'Taker, and Lita all began to snicker. Rey giggled along with them, and began slapping his palms over the backs of his hands, imitating what H and Cena were doing. Shawn rolled his eyes, looking highly annoyed.
Finally, after five minutes of Cena and H's hand war, Shawn decided enough was enough. He slapped his other hand down over Cena's, and glared at the two. They both gave him innocent looks, flashed each other warning looks, and the three turned back to the others. Shawn muttered something under his breath. Triple H flinched slightly.
"Anyway," Shawn said. "Team, behind this door may be…" He trailed off purposely.
"…The cocks," Cena finished with a slight ominous air. The others regarded them soberly.
Triple H's eyes narrowed. "Are you ready?"
The others nodded. Their faces were set, almost solemn, their eyes wide with anticipation.
"No, team, I said…are…you…ready?"
"Yeah!" they all exclaimed, throwing their fists into the air.
"Then let's go!" Shawn said, and the three turned the knob at the same time, throwing the door open.
…
Kane was the first to turn to the new voice, which came from behind the door, followed by other voices. Kane thought he recognized them, but it wasn't until seven boys and one girl, all his age, filed in that he realized where. And the sight of one boy made him jump to his feet.
"Brother!" he cried, seeing the boy dressed in black—Undertaker, no doubt.
Undertaker blinked at the masked boy, surprised to see him. "Brother? Kane?"
"Fwend Kwane!" Rey cried elatedly, and tried to go to him. Shawn held him back.
Randy frowned, considering this new boy carefully. "This is your brother, 'Taker?" he questioned.
"Yeah." Undertaker squinted at Kane, trying to look stern. "Kane, what are you doing here?"
"Trying to get away from these guys," Kane replied darkly, pointing to the Spirit Squad. The four boys had retreated to the couch with Mikey and his pickles, and were now huddled around him, eyeing the eight mistrustfully.
Triple H yelped. "F-Fairies!" he cried, in absolute horror, his eyes wide. Quickly, he ducked behind Shawn. He crouched behind his friend, shuddering, his hands over his eyes. "Don't look them in the eyes, guys! They're evil!" he warned, his voice shaking slightly.
Shawn patted his shoulder. "It's OK, H," he said soothingly, and turned to glare at the Spirit Squad. "Me and John will take care of these fairies, won't we, John?"
John grinned and nodded. He turned to the Spirit Squad, cracking his knuckles. "Oh yeah."
Edge nodded in agreement. "As much as I hate you guys, I think I wanna take out these fairies, too."
"We're not fairies!" Kenny retorted, glaring back at Shawn. "We're cheerleaders!"
"Siwy," Rey said, and giggled. "You awen't Cheweaders! You fwairies!"
Shawn blinked, and turned to Cena, genuinely confused. "There's a difference?" Cena shrugged, also looking perplexed.
While the rest of the quintet scowled, Mikey only looked thoughtfully at Shawn, Cena and Edge. He held up his jar of pickles, and said slowly, "The most important thing about pickles is you have to tend to them every day..."
Shawn and Cena exchanged looks, but opted to ignore him. They and Edge advanced slowly on the five child cheerleaders, brandishing their fists and glaring. The five backed up, Kenny and Nicky pulling Mikey, who was still talking about how to tend to pickles, along.
Shawn was the first to strike, delivering a hard kick into Kenny's shin. Kenny collapsed with a howl of pain. Cena attacked Nicky, punching him in the stomach. The other Spirit Squad members attacked at once, and thus the battle began.
Meanwhile, Kane had gone to Undertaker, holding up his rubber ducky. "I kept him safe for us," he told his brother, and handed him the duck.
"Jeffery!" Undertaker exclaimed, taking the duck. He hugged it, grinning. "I missed you, Jeffery!" he told the rubber duck, holding it tightly.
"Bobby," Kane corrected, adjusting his mask. "His name is Bobby."
"No," Undertaker recounted, "his name is Jeffery."
"Bobby," Kane said doggedly.
"Jeffery." Undertaker was beginning to get angry.
"Bobby!" Kane snapped.
"Jeffery!" 'Taker retorted, lashing out at Kane.
"Bobby!" Kane shot back, slapping Undertaker outside the head.
"Jeffery!"
"Bobby!"
"Jeffery!"
"Bobby!"
"OK!" Randy called, loud enough to be heard over their shouting, and snatched the duck away from 'Taker. Kane glared at him. Undertaker regarded him with a slightly questioning expression. "Why don't we comprosise? We'll call it Bobby Jeffery."
"All right," Kane muttered begrudgingly, crossing his arms.
Undertaker was almost pouting now. "Why can't it be Jeffery Bobby?"
"Fine. Jeffery Bobby," Randy agreed.
"Bobby Jeffery!" Kane said stubbornly. "His name is Bobby Jeffery!"
"Jeffery Bobby!"
"Bobby Jeffery!"
"Jeffery Bobby!" Undertaker slapped Kane again.
"Bobby Jeffery!" Kane hit him back, snarling now.
"Hey, hey!" Randy snapped, snatching both their hands so they couldn't strike each other. "Why don't we just name it Jeffery Bobby Bobby Jeffery?"
"Fine," Undertaker agreed, taking a step back.
"But why can't we name it Bobby Jeffery Jeffery Bobby?" Kane retorted.
"Jeffery Bobby Bobby Jeffery," Undertaker said decisively.
"Bobby Jeffery Jeffery Bobby!" Kane insisted.
"Jeffery Bobby Bobby Jeffery!"
"Bobby Jeffery Jeffery Bobby!"
"Jeffery Bobby Bobby Jeffery!"
"Bobby Jeffery Jeffery Bobby!"
Undertaker tackled Kane, and the two began rolling around on the floor, pounding each other and shouting the name they wanted for the rubber duck.
Randy groaned, and slapped his forehead. He was getting a headache. "Now I know how Shawn feels," he muttered dully. He shook his head, and watched Undertaker and Kane pound each other on the floor.
"Wep," Rey agreed, and giggled. He took the duck from Randy. "Weffwey Bwobbwy," he said, and walked away.
Mikey, who had escaped unscathed from the brawl between Shawn, Cena, Edge and the rest of the Spirit Squad, now walked up to a very annoyed Randy. He held out his jar of pickles. "Pickle?"
…
Matt Hardy yawned again as he wandered the halls with Michael Cole, exceedingly bored and wishing JBL was around so he could slap the diaper clad boy. He was searching for his brother, Jeff Hardy, who had escaped down this very hall and disappeared. Man, could he move. Almost as fast as he could talk.
He wasn't really worried, even if his brother had a tendancy to unwittingly cause mass destruction wherever he may wander. Why should he care? This wasn't his house. His only concern was that Jeff may find sugar. That would not be good. When Jeff got sugar…well, it was not a pleasant experience.
Cole opened another door, and peeked in. "Jeff?" he called, but there was no response. Disappointed, he stepped back, and shut the door. "Nope."
"Dammit," Matt muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
Michael smiled. "If Shawn was here, he'd kick your butt."
Matt shrugged indifferently, and continued on, Cole at his heels.
…
Eric Bischoff had expected his return to Raw to be triumphant, huge—something talked about worldwide. Sure, the fans didn't exactly have a lot of love for him, nor did most of the superstars. Still, whether they liked it or not, he had made his mark on the wrestling business. Certainly, he had expected his return to be enjoyable, being able to torture helpless wrestlers again.
But Bischoff had not expected this.
There was a boy, no older than five, jumping around the room. He was moving faster than a roadrunner on steroids, cheering and whooping as he did so. Bischoff, meanwhile, cowered on the sofa, his eyes wide.
The boy seemed to notice him, as he suddenly leapt in front of him. The boy jumped up and down before him, grinning. His hair, which was now red, bounced on his shoulders. "HellomisterI'mJeffHardyI'mfivehaveyouseenmybrother?"
"…What?" Bischoff said, blinking. The boy had said all of that very fast—faster than he moved, if that was possible—and Bischoff hadn't understood much. But he thought he had caught one part of what the child had said, and now he thought he recognized him. The former GM of Raw blinked again.
"…Jeff Hardy?" he managed, his shock and incomprehension evident.
The boy seemed delighted, and his head bobbed up and down so fast Bischoff feared it would fly off. "Yepyepyep!"
Bischoff blinked again. "What the hell—?"
"I'mlookingformybrotherhe'sreallyshortandhelookslikeafish!"
"…Huh?"
"I do not look like a fish!"
Bischoff almost groaned as he looked around. Two more boys—same age, from the look of it—were standing in the doorway. The one in front, who had black hair pulled behind him in a ponytail—and who really did look something like a fish, now that Bischoff looked closer—glared at the jumping boy, his hands on his hips.
"Fishface!" the jumping boy—Jeff Hardy—cried delightedly. He bounded to the boy, pulling him into a tight embrace.
"Stop calling me that!" the boy who looked slightly like a fish snapped, and shoved the bouncing boy away.
There was only one person Bischoff knew of who looked like a fish.
"Matt Hardy?"
The Hardy boy blinked at him. "Who are you?"
"He'smynewfriend!" Jeff proclaimed, and bounced his way across the room. He leapt at Eric Bischoff, but he was moving much too fast, and missed the bewildered GM by a mile. Instead, he crashed right into the bathroom on the other side of the room.
Matt blinked, and then groaned. "Jeff!" He ran to the bathroom, peeking in uncertainly. "Michael!" he called back over his shoulder.
The boy who had accompanied him immediately ran to his side, and Bischoff heard him gasp.
Bewildered, Bischoff stood, and walked over to them. He looked in.
Jeff Hardy was leaning over the toilet bowl, his head concealed from their view. His hands gripped the seat, and he seemed to be struggling—as if he was attempting to pull himself out. He was stuck.
Bischoff snorted, slight amusement taking the place of the bewilderment. But his amusement faded quickly as a sharp pain shot up his leg, forcing him to collapse onto the ground. He looked around, startled, clutching his leg. After a moment he realized Matt Hardy, who was now glaring at him, had kicked his shin.
"Don't laugh at my brother!" he snapped, and turned with a huff.
Bischoff blinked yet once more, his mouth falling open. "Hey—"
Hardy ignored him, going to his brother. The other boy, the one Hardy had called Michael, looked at Eric apologetically, but said nothing.
Hardy snatched a handful of his brother's hair, and pulled. A muffled yelp sounded in the bowl, and Matt ceased his pulling. "Help, Michael!" he called, and gripped his brother's shirt.
Michael ran to him immediately, and took his own handful of the other boy's shirt. The two boys proceeded to pull as hard as they could.
After a moment of tugging, they managed to pull him out. All three stumbled back, toilet water flying everywhere, splashing over Bischoff and the other two boys. They slammed into the wall, letting go of Jeff, who immediately resumed jumping, grinning at them.
"Igotstuckinthetoiletthanksguys!" he cried excitedly, and bounded out of the room, cheering.
"Here we go again," Matt Hardy groaned, and stood, rubbing his back.
"Déjà vu," Michael agreed, and rose to his feet as well. "Let's go find Batista," he suggested. "He'll know what to do."
Matt nodded. "He always knows what to do."
They walked out, leaving a bewildered Bischoff to stare after them from his spot on the floor, still holding his aching shin. Then he stood, and followed them, thinking he'd go look for Vince McMahon.
If only he had known what he was getting himself into…
Heh, heh…bet you thought I wasn't going to put Jeff, did you? Heh. And Eric Bischoff makes his guest appearance! I don't know if he'll be in future chapters…maybe I'll just have him wander the halls for the entire fic. –shrugs- I don't think he's significant enough to torture, do you? For those of you still following this story, tell me if you'd like me to torture him with our five year old friends. Maybe I even will, if I deem him significant enough.