A/N: I don't own any of the wrestlers. And yes, it's all in good fun. No offense is intended to anyone who loves wrestling, writing or religion. (Or anything else. Heh.)

The Mizard Of Odd

Chapter 2: Miz Meets His Roommate

He couldn't open his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. Despite the voices that should have alarmed him, the bumping around in a vehicle that should have woken him, and the insane amount of noise that was now surrounding him, Miz felt as though his eyelids were glued shut. And though that should have bothered him, for some reason it didn't. He could hear the squeak of wheels, voices bombarding his ears, screaming… and he just didn't care. "Hey," he heard from far off. "Who's the new guy?"

Someone closer- just over his head, in fact- answered, "Don't know. His tag says his name is 'Miz', whatever that means." Laugher, then, and the squeaking wheel continued to roll on, drowning out the rest of the noise. That could get really annoying, Miz thought philosophically, if he were forced to listen to it for too long. If he could make himself care, that was. He tried to care, but found he couldn't muster up the emotion needed to do so. Eh, whatever.

"How much did they give this one?" the voice that had been over his head grumbled as Miz felt his body lifted and settled flat onto some surface or other. Maybe it was a table and they were going to eat him. Maybe then he would care? Oh, nope; still didn't care. Huh. Weird. "He's dead weight."

"Eh, wait til he wakes up," said a second voice with a laugh. "I bet he's not dead weight then. We'd better either lock him down or lock him in. He looks like one of them that might try to fight."

"Lock him down," said the first voice. "You can't lock the door, or his roommate will throw a fit."

"Good point." Something cold touched his wrist and Miz heard a jingling noise. "Sweet dreams, Spike." More laughter, and the sound of a door closing. Then, blissful silence. Miz sank back down into his sea of not caring and rested.

%

"Psst! Hey, psst!" Someone was poking him in the side. Miz groaned, his head pounding like he'd drank a whole bottle of Tequila. "Hey!" The poking continued. He tried to roll away from it, but came up short, his arm jerking to a halt as he hit the end of whatever was binding him.

"God, Morrison," he moaned, "you ass. What the hell is your problem? Quit that!" His mouth felt dryer than cotton.

The poking stopped. "Morrison?" a voice said. "I'm not Morrison! How dare you! And Hell is my problem! Well, Hell and the fact that you're in my room."

That voice was definitely not Morrison's, though it was oddly familiar. Miz cracked open an eye to stare at the man with stringy hair. "What the hell is going on here?" Miz demanded- well, as much as one can demand in a croaky whisper.

"I've come to save your soul," said the other man, who appeared to be sitting in an industrial looking chair next to the bed. "Repent, and all will be well. You need not face the fiery pits, so long as you embrace straightedge."

Miz groaned. "If you'd put on some deodorant or maybe take a shower once in a while, maybe the pits wouldn't be fiery," he said. "Go away, Punk. I have no desire to go straightedge. And what are you doing in my room, anyway? Did Morrison let you in?"

"Ah, no," Punk said. "In fact, I'm not in your room at all. You're in my room."

Miz pulled the pillow over his head with his free hand. "Great. Way to play a joke on me, guys." He peeked out from under the pillow. "Uh, and what is up with this?" He tried to pull his other hand back from the edge of the bed, only to be stopped by a handcuff. "Look, Punk, I'm not into all that weird stuff, all right? So whoever has the keys needs to let me out right freaking now because otherwise, I'm going to have to kill someone."

"You may not want to say things like that too loudly," Punk advised.

"Why not?" Miz asked, pushing the pillow back so he could sit up and gaze blearily around the room. "Wow, these hotels get more industrial by the day, don't they? And what's with the railings on the bed, anyway?"

Punk sighed. "You're not in a hotel, Miz. This is a hospital."

Miz frowned. "A hospital? Oh my God, did I get hurt in a match?" He paused, trying to locate the pain. "I don't feel hurt."

"Not that kind of hospital," Punk said. "You've gone mad, unfortunately."

"I've done what?" Miz asked, blinking.

"Gone mad. You're crazy. You've lost your mind." Punk shook his head slowly. "And now you're here, with the rest of us."

"Us?" Miz stared at Punk. "Um, Punk? I don't feel crazy."

"They never do."

"Okay," Miz said, drawing the word out. "So I'm mad. And you're also mad?"

"Oh no," Punk said earnestly. "I'm quite sane."

"Um, then why are you here?"

Punk shrugged. "It's part of my penance. I'm mostly here to rescue the souls of the lost and bring them to straightedge."

"What… are you talking about?"

Punk smiled. "I'm Jesus."

"You're joking," Miz said.

"No," Punk said. "I'm completely serious. God loves straightedge so much that he sent me down to earth to rescue the souls of wrestling fans everywhere. So the sooner you repent and join the straightedge movement, the sooner you can ascend up to heaven with me when I go home."

Miz stared at Punk for a long moment, then sighed. "Right," he said, "you're completely sane and I'm crazy. That makes perfect sense. I'm having my soul rescued by C.M. Jesus."

"You can call me Punk," Punk said with a smile.

"There are lots of things I could call you," Miz agreed. "But Punk, do you think you could find someone who can get these handcuffs off me? I'd like to get up now."

"Oh, sure!" Punk said. "Where are my manners? Would you like anything to drink? Pepsi, maybe?"

"Just get whoever can let me up, please?"

Punk shrugged. "Fine. But don't think I'm giving up on your soul, Miz. When I come back, we can have a nice, long talk about straightedge and the state of your soul."

"Sounds like a great time," Miz muttered as Punk left. "I may have to chew through the handcuffs if that happens."