Ric Flair never expected the phonecall he'd gotten and it was a very good thing he'd been in Omaha, Nebraska, of all places. He hadn't gone to see the WWE show, that's for sure. He'd gone scouting for TNA in a high school gym at an indy show where maybe 100 people had shown up.

He'd gotten a phonecall from one very woozy Randal Orton. Now, Randy and Ric had quite the history. Ric had seen Randy grow up, and had played a big part in shaping the man Randy became. Of course, bad came with the good but Ric had worked his best with the raw talent he'd been given. The rest of the credit, of course, would go to Bob Orton for raising him, and for Vince McMahon and Hunter for helping to shape him.

Ric's values were a bit different than most people's. Ric's life was dictated by money. If something paid him, he'd do it. Randy hadn't been as attracted to the paychecks, and somehow Randy outearned Ric in a matter of a few years' time. But sometimes in Randy's darkest hours, it was Ric he turned to, and Ric knew exactly why.

Randy couldn't turn to Hunter, or Vince, or he'd end up released from his contract.

Randy couldn't turn to Dave because he'd alienated Dave.

Randy shouldn't turn to Ric, but he was the least of the evils and this time, sheer luck is what allowed Ric to assist.

This "Viper" that the wrestling world was eating up and loving as the newest babyface of the World Wrestling Entertainment Organization was relatively close to Randal's actual personality, but then again, the cocky "Legend Killer" had been, too. In Ric's heart (believe it or not, he did have a heart), Randal would always be the big kid in Evolution who Evolution ultimately turned against.

Ric had fielded two of these calls, prior to tonight, from Randal in the last four years. The first time, Dave had come with him. That's when the wedge between Randal and Dave had occurred: Dave believed from that point on that Randy was "a spoiled fucking brat who appreciates nothing. Nothing more than a fucking drama queen who thinks the world revolves around him. I kill myself for this business. He's born into it, bred for it, has everything, and does this?"

That was in the spring of 2006, shortly after he was suspended by World Wrestling Entertainment for "unprofessional conduct," and a few months before he was suspended a second time, in August of 2007, for failing a drug test. The St. Louis hospital that Randy was taken to was also where Mrs. Orton, his mother, was employed as a nurse, so records were easy to "go missing" once he'd been treated. Bob Orton told the local press and the wrestling newsletters that he had spoken with his son, and Randy said he had no idea where this rumor started.

The second time was in April 2007, when Randy had been sent home from the European Tour. Initially, WWE tried to smokescreen it by saying Randy had a stomach flu, but word got out that he'd done over $50,000 in damage to a hotel room. What hadn't gotten out is that it was Ric and a few trainers that had gotten Randy to a local hospital to have his stomach pumped. The kid liked pills when feeling that desperate and knew what concoctions to take to have calls that would be more than close calls if he hadn't been found in time, both times.

Of course, Randy knew concoctions, though. Steroids had been a part of his life from the moment he'd begun training as a wrestler. It was Ric who showed Randy the best injection sites, and Bob had some very good connections. Only when those connections dried up did Randy end up getting embroiled in the Signature Pharmacy fiasco.

But tonight, the call had been unexpected, and Ric went.

This time, however, there was no sense of WWE loyalty, not that Ric was exactly a loyal fellow. Randy would have two choices to make when he woke up, because not only would he wake up, but he'd pull through and the traces of the records would be done away with, because Ric had that sort of influence in the wrestling world sometimes, and Omaha was full of wrestling addicts, many who worked at the hospital...

Randy could either pay for Ric's silence, or maybe consider coming to TNA. He sat beside the gurney where the curtain was pulled to shield the patient and visitor from curious eyes. He closed his own eyes as Randy slept after the stomach pumping.

Randy started waking up, remembering things in blurs.

He remembered Ric getting him into the rental car. Apparently Ric had taken a cab to find Randy. He remembered Ric getting Randy's bag together, and he remembered trying not to lean too hard on the 61-year old to get down the stairs and out of the hotel. He remembered how red Ric's face had been struggling with Randy's bag.

He remembered Sam's words and the paralyzing fucking -grief- he felt. He'd lost her, he fucking knew it, she was done with him. She might say she loved him but love wasn't enough for her. He'd tried. He'd bought their daughter over 20 grand worth of things for her birthday...that's a hell of a birthday. It wasn't done to impress Sam or be overly lavish..it was just things that his salary allowed him to get his daughter. But he'd also bought Sam a little something and these things didn't seem to earn back any of her trust or anything. He tried. As much as he was humanly able to, he tried.

Hawaii was coming up but he was sure she'd cancel on him now that she'd told him it was over. That's when he'd, after picking himself up out of the fucking alley he'd gone down to talk to her, after he'd left Arthur's, got back to his hotel room and felt such a physical pain unlike any he'd ever had in his life. If anybody asked him, the only way he would be able to describe it would be to say that if he had to guess how a heart attack felt, a couple of those at once. It really had been a major anxiety attack as well as a wave of depression that knocked him on his ass, and his response to that was to open up his bottle of Xanax, quantity 180 when filled, so about 150 in the bottle, and swallow with a swig of water.

Stupid, yes. Done before, yes. Chickened out at the very last minute? Sadly, yes.

He called Ric. He wouldn't have called the Cowboy. The Cowboy was getting up in years and to know about something like this would kill him. His uncle Barry could be off with the fucking Dalai Lama or somebody, for all Randy knew. Nathan was, in Randy's eyes, still a kid. Plus, the Cowboy and Nathan were in MO. Ric could be anywhere, and that's who he called.

He remembered the stomach pumping. That was fucking awful. The tube went up his nose, down his throat and into his stomach, and he could feel that when they took it out, they'd scraped him. He'd probably see blood in the tissue for the next week when he'd blow his nose. His throat felt raw and his stomach felt like he'd taken one too many of the ladder hits at MITB.

Just like the last couple times this had been done to him, he'd been placed on his left side with his chin down. He'd been just conscious enough to help out the doctors, by holding his chin to his chest at a certain point and by swallowing on command to assist in sending the tubing down the esophagus and into the stomach. It was at that moment that he wished he never called Ric..it fucking hurt. Had he been completely unconscious, the doctor and nurse would've probably gotten the tubing in in under a minute. It would've been easier. No way could he give a guess on how long it took, the pumping of his stomach..they kept doing it until the contents ran clear. And it hurt like hell. And he'd still have to drive to RAW, and act like this never happened.

"Ric, no," he'd said as the nurse told them that Randy (or, in this case, "Reid Flair," as Ric had admitted Randy under Ric's son's name, even though much of the emergency personnel knew that this was Randy Orton) would have to be held for 24-hour observation and then a psychiatric had changed hands. That's where it got blurry. But Ric made the observation period and the need for a psych consult to go away.

Randy's eyes opened and he saw that his phone was in Ric's hands, and Ric's eyes were closed. He looked at him, could see Ric had aged since they'd seen one another last, and what was Randy going to do? He had to trust Ric. It was like making a deal with the devil but there were no other options, especially since this devil knew what the hell he was doing.

"What's this going to cost me, Ric?" Randy asked hoarsely. The tube had really done a job on him and talking and swallowing, even breathing hurt.

Ric, at least, was upfront about it. "Well, kid, it's not a little sum we're talkin' about. To buy you out of the 24 hour hold and the psych evaluation, that cost me a fortune, and of course, there'll have to be something for my time and trouble. You're doing well these days. A lot better than me."

He was considering asking for Randy to influence Owen Cena to the TNA side, but quickly shot that idea down, instead going for the cash. Ric was being sued for $40,000 from Ring of Honor, had a large bankruptcy case that had gone through and still had some other debts.

"At least a million, Randal. At least."

Randy winced, from swallowing on a raw throat and because of the number Ric pitched. While Randy, yes, made in excess of two mil a year, it wasn't like he saw all of that in cash.

For those who don't know, WWE talent aren't like people who hold regular jobs. They don't punch in and out and get paid by the hour or any of that shit. Nope. They're "independent contractors." And by being independent contractors, they pay their expenses as they go. Some guys, like Randy, got liberal reimbursement. Other guys, say, like Zack Ryder, had to pay everything out of pocket and didn't get things like hotels and flights on the WWE's reimbursed dime.

There was Maria Kanellis, whose first year in WWE had a salary of $45K. She spent almost twice that in road expenses and ring gear and hairstylists..it was crazy. You had to spend money in this business to get anywhere.

Ric was a classic example of living beyond one's means.

Randy had his investments and things but didn't have a million liquid cash like that, not that he could just say "Here, Ric," and hand him a big-ass cardboard check like Publishers Fucking Clearing House Sweepstakes or some shit.

He also knew Ric was extorting him.

"Ric...please be reasonable. I can't give you that all at once. I can probably free up about a quarter of that without anybody noticing. Hell, IRS laws say you can't give anybody more than 11 grand a year without being gift taxed on it."

How Randy knew to say that while laying there after having his stomach pumped, he didn't know. He was exhausted and he was indebted to Ric,but a million dollars was something Randy couldn't do. Not that easily.

Ric stared coldly at Randal citing IRS gift law. If Ric knew anything, it was how to avoid IRS taxes. (Although he'd had trouble with them, he was learning more about how to avoid trouble with them.)

"You fail to realize that the IRS also says that you can begift anyone up to 1 million dollars as a one time gift during your lifetime without penalty. So stop fucking with me and tell me what you can do for me." Gone was the caring nature and on was the threat of telling everyone who'd listen what happened tonight.

The nurse came in and offered Randy something for the pain, and he took it gladly. It was Dilaudid, his drug of choice when in the hospital, and it killed the rawness of his throat and allowed the edges to soften. When it was shot in through his IV, it actually, once it hit, made his abs radiate for a few seconds, from deep inside, like someone stoked a fire. Then it would hit the back of his neck in a heat that made his eyes roll back and his head tilt. At moments like that, he understood how guys like Jeff Hardy could get hooked on shit.

When the wave subsided, he looked at Ric and assessed the situation while exhausted and under medication.

He couldn't offer to do a TNA appearance, taping or endorsement or Vince would fucking kill him.

He couldn't offer Ric merch, to sell, because that too could violate WWE guidelines.

It had to be cash.

"I can come up with 250 liquid..and if I sell my stock, I can get about the same. A half-mil is all I can do, Ric. Please." He knew Ric wasn't fucking around, but neither was Randy. He wasn't going to sell off any more assets besides his portfolio, nor was he going to alert the IRS or Sam or anyone. For Ric to be instantly flush with cash, word could get out. A half-mil was a lot less devastating than a full mil. "I could sell it or just transfer it to you."

Ric thought about the offer. He didn't think long, though, because part of him did have to consider that Randal was 30 years old now. He was no longer the 24 year old big kid of Evolution that he was molding and could manipulate as easily. While Randal's weakness was his instability, just like his uncle Barry, Randal was also a little smarter than he gave himself credit for.

Randal could also afford a good attorney and go to the police and get Ric charged with extortion, if he wanted to. Of course, everything could and would go public then, and then the "Viper" wouldn't be as bankable.

Ric accepted the offer in the form of:

"You'll wire the money before you check in at the arena in Tulsa. Then you'll transfer the stock to me and send me the confirmation numbers of both. If this isn't done by 5:00 in the afternoon..which gives you just around 12 hours, Randal, I'm going to Vince before RAW goes live."

Randy nodded his acceptance of the offer and drifted to sleep.

He slept hard for 4 hours, and come 10am, he was being assisted back into his clothes. Ric had taken a cab out of there, and Randy, technically, shouldn't have been allowed to drive, but Ric had taken care of that, too.

Money sure as hell -does- talk.

The IVs were capped off, then removed, the hospital bracelet bearing Reid's name and pertinent details cut off with a scissor, and Randy was on his way in the rental car. His eyes were bleary, even though the eye Dave punched no longer hurt thanks to the pain shot that still had some lingering effects. His cell was dead and he didn't have the car charger with him, so it was a very quiet ride until he reached Tulsa 5 hours later.

Randy checked into the hotel like a zombie. He should've gone to the arena first..it was already 3pm, but had to get a shower and try to get some life back into him. His phone was also charging for a little while.

He did his damnedest to not remember the events leading up to the hospital, and by now, the pain shot did wear off. The bleariness was from little rest, a lot of stress, and the fact that he was now late for RAW.

He had the app installed on his phone to move money but this was a sum he had to go to a bank in person to do. The stock, he could move with his phone, so did that as he was driving.

There was a bank branch on the way and Randy did have to sign some documents to make sure the money got wired.

He then notified Ric.

And with that, he'd go to the arena, possibly catch hell for being late and just look at the hell-giver blankly. The sleeves that Ric found offensive-looking and "defiling" or whatever to Randy's body hid the IV bruises.

He was in the locker room with his bag, and sat on the bench for a few minutes, trying to get his head together and yet, at the same time, not think.

(end)

Ric Flair never expected the phonecall he'd gotten and it was a very good thing he'd been in Omaha, Nebraska, of all places. He hadn't gone to see the WWE show, that's for sure. He'd gone scouting for TNA in a high school gym at an indy show where maybe 100 people had shown up.

He'd gotten a phonecall from one very woozy Randal Orton. Now, Randy and Ric had quite the history. Ric had seen Randy grow up, and had played a big part in shaping the man Randy became. Of course, bad came with the good but Ric had worked his best with the raw talent he'd been given. The rest of the credit, of course, would go to Bob Orton for raising him, and for Vince McMahon and Hunter for helping to shape him.

Ric's values were a bit different than most people's. Ric's life was dictated by money. If something paid him, he'd do it. Randy hadn't been as attracted to the paychecks, and somehow Randy outearned Ric in a matter of a few years' time. But sometimes in Randy's darkest hours, it was Ric he turned to, and Ric knew exactly why.

Randy couldn't turn to Hunter, or Vince, or he'd end up released from his contract.

Randy couldn't turn to Dave because he'd alienated Dave.

Randy shouldn't turn to Ric, but he was the least of the evils and this time, sheer luck is what allowed Ric to assist.

This "Viper" that the wrestling world was eating up and loving as the newest babyface of the World Wrestling Entertainment Organization was relatively close to Randal's actual personality, but then again, the cocky "Legend Killer" had been, too. In Ric's heart (believe it or not, he did have a heart), Randal would always be the big kid in Evolution who Evolution ultimately turned against. (It would be suggested that the short video be watched for a sense of what's in Ric's mind. It's an abbreviated clip that some might not be completely familiar with, regardless of the title. Be sure to note the genuine affection Dave Batista had for Randal at about the 42 second moment.)

Ric had fielded two of these calls, prior to tonight, from Randal in the last four years. The first time, Dave had come with him. That's when the wedge between Randal and Dave had occurred: Dave believed from that point on that Randy was "a spoiled fucking brat who appreciates nothing. Nothing more than a fucking drama queen who thinks the world revolves around him. I kill myself for this business. He's born into it, bred for it, has everything, and does this?"

That was in the spring of 2006, shortly after he was suspended by World Wrestling Entertainment for "unprofessional conduct," and a few months before he was suspended a second time, in August of 2007, for failing a drug test. The St. Louis hospital that Randy was taken to was also where Mrs. Orton, his mother, was employed as a nurse, so records were easy to "go missing" once he'd been treated. Bob Orton told the local press and the wrestling newsletters that he had spoken with his son, and Randy said he had no idea where this rumor started.

The second time was in April 2007, when Randy had been sent home from the European Tour. Initially, WWE tried to smokescreen it by saying Randy had a stomach flu, but word got out that he'd done over $50,000 in damage to a hotel room. What hadn't gotten out is that it was Ric and a few trainers that had gotten Randy to a local hospital to have his stomach pumped. The kid liked pills when feeling that desperate and knew what concoctions to take to have calls that would be more than close calls if he hadn't been found in time, both times.

Of course, Randy knew concoctions, though. Steroids had been a part of his life from the moment he'd begun training as a wrestler. It was Ric who showed Randy the best injection sites, and Bob had some very good connections. Only when those connections dried up did Randy end up getting embroiled in the Signature Pharmacy fiasco.

But tonight, the call had been unexpected, and Ric went.

This time, however, there was no sense of WWE loyalty, not that Ric was exactly a loyal fellow. Randy would have two choices to make when he woke up, because not only would he wake up, but he'd pull through and the traces of the records would be done away with, because Ric had that sort of influence in the wrestling world sometimes, and Omaha was full of wrestling addicts, many who worked at the hospital...

Randy could either pay for Ric's silence, or maybe consider coming to TNA. He sat beside the gurney where the curtain was pulled to shield the patient and visitor from curious eyes. He closed his own eyes as Randy slept after the stomach pumping.

Randy started waking up, remembering things in blurs.

He remembered Ric getting him into the rental car. Apparently Ric had taken a cab to find Randy. He remembered Ric getting Randy's bag together, and he remembered trying not to lean too hard on the 61-year old to get down the stairs and out of the hotel. He remembered how red Ric's face had been struggling with Randy's bag.

He remembered Sam's words and the paralyzing fucking -grief- he felt. He'd lost her, he fucking knew it, she was done with him. She might say she loved him but love wasn't enough for her. He'd tried. He'd bought their daughter over 20 grand worth of things for her birthday...that's a hell of a birthday. It wasn't done to impress Sam or be overly lavish..it was just things that his salary allowed him to get his daughter. But he'd also bought Sam a little something and these things didn't seem to earn back any of her trust or anything. He tried. As much as he was humanly able to, he tried.

Hawaii was coming up but he was sure she'd cancel on him now that she'd told him it was over. That's when he'd, after picking himself up out of the fucking alley he'd gone down to talk to her, after he'd left Arthur's, got back to his hotel room and felt such a physical pain unlike any he'd ever had in his life. If anybody asked him, the only way he would be able to describe it would be to say that if he had to guess how a heart attack felt, a couple of those at once. It really had been a major anxiety attack as well as a wave of depression that knocked him on his ass, and his response to that was to open up his bottle of Xanax, quantity 180 when filled, so about 150 in the bottle, and swallow with a swig of water.

Stupid, yes. Done before, yes. Chickened out at the very last minute? Sadly, yes.

He called Ric. He wouldn't have called the Cowboy. The Cowboy was getting up in years and to know about something like this would kill him. His uncle Barry could be off with the fucking Dalai Lama or somebody, for all Randy knew. Nathan was, in Randy's eyes, still a kid. Plus, the Cowboy and Nathan were in MO. Ric could be anywhere, and that's who he called.

He remembered the stomach pumping. That was fucking awful. The tube went up his nose, down his throat and into his stomach, and he could feel that when they took it out, they'd scraped him. He'd probably see blood in the tissue for the next week when he'd blow his nose. His throat felt raw and his stomach felt like he'd taken one too many of the ladder hits at MITB.

Just like the last couple times this had been done to him, he'd been placed on his left side with his chin down. He'd been just conscious enough to help out the doctors, by holding his chin to his chest at a certain point and by swallowing on command to assist in sending the tubing down the esophagus and into the stomach. It was at that moment that he wished he never called Ric..it fucking hurt. Had he been completely unconscious, the doctor and nurse would've probably gotten the tubing in in under a minute. It would've been easier. No way could he give a guess on how long it took, the pumping of his stomach..they kept doing it until the contents ran clear. And it hurt like hell. And he'd still have to drive to RAW, and act like this never happened.

"Ric, no," he'd said as the nurse told them that Randy (or, in this case, "Reid Flair," as Ric had admitted Randy under Ric's son's name, even though much of the emergency personnel knew that this was Randy Orton) would have to be held for 24-hour observation and then a psychiatric had changed hands. That's where it got blurry. But Ric made the observation period and the need for a psych consult to go away.

Randy's eyes opened and he saw that his phone was in Ric's hands, and Ric's eyes were closed. He looked at him, could see Ric had aged since they'd seen one another last, and what was Randy going to do? He had to trust Ric. It was like making a deal with the devil but there were no other options, especially since this devil knew what the hell he was doing.

"What's this going to cost me, Ric?" Randy asked hoarsely. The tube had really done a job on him and talking and swallowing, even breathing hurt.

Ric, at least, was upfront about it. "Well, kid, it's not a little sum we're talkin' about. To buy you out of the 24 hour hold and the psych evaluation, that cost me a fortune, and of course, there'll have to be something for my time and trouble. You're doing well these days. A lot better than me."

He was considering asking for Randy to influence Owen Cena to the TNA side, but quickly shot that idea down, instead going for the cash. Ric was being sued for $40,000 from Ring of Honor, had a large bankruptcy case that had gone through and still had some other debts.

"At least a million, Randal. At least."

Randy winced, from swallowing on a raw throat and because of the number Ric pitched. While Randy, yes, made in excess of two mil a year, it wasn't like he saw all of that in cash.

For those who don't know, WWE talent aren't like people who hold regular jobs. They don't punch in and out and get paid by the hour or any of that shit. Nope. They're "independent contractors." And by being independent contractors, they pay their expenses as they go. Some guys, like Randy, got liberal reimbursement. Other guys, say, like Zack Ryder, had to pay everything out of pocket and didn't get things like hotels and flights on the WWE's reimbursed dime.

There was Maria Kanellis, whose first year in WWE had a salary of $45K. She spent almost twice that in road expenses and ring gear and hairstylists..it was crazy. You had to spend money in this business to get anywhere.

Ric was a classic example of living beyond one's means.

Randy had his investments and things but didn't have a million liquid cash like that, not that he could just say "Here, Ric," and hand him a big-ass cardboard check like Publishers Fucking Clearing House Sweepstakes or some shit.

He also knew Ric was extorting him.

"Ric...please be reasonable. I can't give you that all at once. I can probably free up about a quarter of that without anybody noticing. Hell, IRS laws say you can't give anybody more than 11 grand a year without being gift taxed on it."

How Randy knew to say that while laying there after having his stomach pumped, he didn't know. He was exhausted and he was indebted to Ric,but a million dollars was something Randy couldn't do. Not that easily.

Ric stared coldly at Randal citing IRS gift law. If Ric knew anything, it was how to avoid IRS taxes. (Although he'd had trouble with them, he was learning more about how to avoid trouble with them.)

"You fail to realize that the IRS also says that you can begift anyone up to 1 million dollars as a one time gift during your lifetime without penalty. So stop fucking with me and tell me what you can do for me." Gone was the caring nature and on was the threat of telling everyone who'd listen what happened tonight.

The nurse came in and offered Randy something for the pain, and he took it gladly. It was Dilaudid, his drug of choice when in the hospital, and it killed the rawness of his throat and allowed the edges to soften. When it was shot in through his IV, it actually, once it hit, made his abs radiate for a few seconds, from deep inside, like someone stoked a fire. Then it would hit the back of his neck in a heat that made his eyes roll back and his head tilt. At moments like that, he understood how guys like Jeff Hardy could get hooked on shit.

When the wave subsided, he looked at Ric and assessed the situation while exhausted and under medication.

He couldn't offer to do a TNA appearance, taping or endorsement or Vince would fucking kill him.

He couldn't offer Ric merch, to sell, because that too could violate WWE guidelines.

It had to be cash.

"I can come up with 250 liquid..and if I sell my stock, I can get about the same. A half-mil is all I can do, Ric. Please." He knew Ric wasn't fucking around, but neither was Randy. He wasn't going to sell off any more assets besides his portfolio, nor was he going to alert the IRS or Sam or anyone. For Ric to be instantly flush with cash, word could get out. A half-mil was a lot less devastating than a full mil. "I could sell it or just transfer it to you."

Ric thought about the offer. He didn't think long, though, because part of him did have to consider that Randal was 30 years old now. He was no longer the 24 year old big kid of Evolution that he was molding and could manipulate as easily. While Randal's weakness was his instability, just like his uncle Barry, Randal was also a little smarter than he gave himself credit for.

Randal could also afford a good attorney and go to the police and get Ric charged with extortion, if he wanted to. Of course, everything could and would go public then, and then the "Viper" wouldn't be as bankable.

Ric accepted the offer in the form of:

"You'll wire the money before you check in at the arena in Tulsa. Then you'll transfer the stock to me and send me the confirmation numbers of both. If this isn't done by 5:00 in the afternoon..which gives you just around 12 hours, Randal, I'm going to Vince before RAW goes live."

Randy nodded his acceptance of the offer and drifted to sleep.

He slept hard for 4 hours, and come 10am, he was being assisted back into his clothes. Ric had taken a cab out of there, and Randy, technically, shouldn't have been allowed to drive, but Ric had taken care of that, too.

Money sure as hell -does- talk.

The IVs were capped off, then removed, the hospital bracelet bearing Reid's name and pertinent details cut off with a scissor, and Randy was on his way in the rental car. His eyes were bleary, even though the eye Dave punched no longer hurt thanks to the pain shot that still had some lingering effects. His cell was dead and he didn't have the car charger with him, so it was a very quiet ride until he reached Tulsa 5 hours later.

Randy checked into the hotel like a zombie. He should've gone to the arena first..it was already 3pm, but had to get a shower and try to get some life back into him. His phone was also charging for a little while.

He did his damnedest to not remember the events leading up to the hospital, and by now, the pain shot did wear off. The bleariness was from little rest, a lot of stress, and the fact that he was now late for RAW.

He had the app installed on his phone to move money but this was a sum he had to go to a bank in person to do. The stock, he could move with his phone, so did that as he was driving.

There was a bank branch on the way and Randy did have to sign some documents to make sure the money got wired.

He then notified Ric.

And with that, he'd go to the arena, possibly catch hell for being late and just look at the hell-giver blankly. The sleeves that Ric found offensive-looking and "defiling" or whatever to Randy's body hid the IV bruises.

He was in the locker room with his bag, and sat on the bench for a few minutes, trying to get his head together and yet, at the same time, not think.

(end)