MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.
I'VE JUST RECEIVED AN EMAIL FROM THE ANONYMOUS RAW GENERAL MANAGER. :O
AND I QUOTE.
The following is a holiday request fill for lovewithstands , who requested WWE fic of the Undertaker + Kane sort, with the prompt of "reflecting on childhood." To be honest, it really ended up being more about childhood than reflection at all, but -- IDEK! *hands* I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIVE MY STRAYING. ><; And also, the fact that this is like, 4 years late. >>; MERRY VERY VERY VERY LATE CHRISTMAS! :D
Title: The Trouble With Eavesdropping
Author: E.K. Bradshaw
Fandom: WWE
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: This sandbox is property of Vince McMahon/WWE. I'm just playing in it at night after everyone's gone to bed. Not mine, don't own. Fiction. Move along, please, nothing to see here.
Something was going on inside the mortuary.
He had seen the long, white utility van belonging to the county coroner pull into the drive; he had seen with a sharp eye the covered gurney wheeled carefully from the back of the van. He had seen Mr. Bearer in his black suit hovering nearby like some sort of rotund vulture, and he wondered how it was that the plump man was not sweating to death in the sweltering heat of the Texas afternoon in that suit. Mr. Bearer, pleasant as he was, was a peculiar man to say the least.
The young, curly-haired boy, Kane, had watched as his father and Mr. Bearer moved the gurney inside. It came back empty some time later, and the coroner collected his things and went. The cargo (the body, Kane thought to himself with a sort of jubilant, morbid fascination) had been dropped. Now, whatever it was that his father and Mr. Bearer did with bodies before they were fixed up and put on display in their fancy wooden boxes was taking place, and it occurred to Kane that he had no earthly idea what, exactly, that was. Whatever it was, he was going to find out. Something was going on inside the mortuary, and Kane was determined to see it.
The room where Kane’s father and Mr. Bearer did their most clandestine work was located at the back of the funeral parlor, on the rear side of the building. This, Kane knew, because the back half of the place was barricaded by a door that stayed perpetually locked. Hanging on that door was a big, red sign which read, quite simply, DO NOT ENTER. (For a curious, ten-year-old dervish of a boy like Kane, this was clearly nothing more than an outright challenge.) There was a window, he knew; there had to be, what with the nature of all the stuff they used in there to embalm and fix the corpses. As he crept stealthily around the side of the building, he found one window that was obscured by heavy curtains. There was just enough space between the two panels to peer inside. The only problem Kane found was, the window was high, and he was not quite tall enough to reach it. Even standing on the very tips of his toes, the top of his dark head barely reached the window frame.
Kane cursed inwardly, his mind choosing a colorful word that would have landed him in a world of hurt with his mother. He looked around for an equalizer, something to at least give him a boost up to the window. Luck, as it were, was on his side, as his eye spotted an old flowerpot near the corner of the building. It was half-buried in the dirt, and it took more effort than it should have to pull the monstrosity out (quietly), but he managed to do it. The old thing was the ornamental sort fashioned from heavy concrete, and he did not lift and carry it so much as roll it until it sat upside-down below the window. Finally, he hopped up, grabbing the window ledge for support. The flowerpot wobbled beneath his feet, unsteady on the uneven ground.
He peered inside.
From where he was, he could see a tall, surgical-style table draped with a long, white cloth that nearly reached the floor. His father stood on the other side of the table, clad in a smock and heavy rubber gloves that covered his forearms.
“Circular saw, please,” he said to Mr. Bearer, and just when Kane was thinking to himself that things were just about to get interesting, the large man moved, right into Kane’s line of vision and stayed there, completely eclipsing his view.
The shrill whine of the saw started up. Kane cursed to himself a second time and waited, silently willing the rotund man out of the way. Eventually, he would have to move. He hoped.
So engrossed was Kane with what was undoubtedly taking place inside the building (not that he could see it), he lost track of his immediate surroundings. It wasn’t until a familiar voice spoke up right next to his ear, low and hissed but still enough to startle the living daylights out of him, that Kane realized he was no longer on his own.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Kane jumped, the flowerpot rocking dangerously underfoot, and the four-letter word he had, up until that moment, only thought to himself ejected itself out loud into the air. He clutched the window frame for support and turned, leering at the individual he already knew would be there. And there indeed stood his older brother, arms folded over his chest, eyeing him sternly with the same look their mother gave them when they were knee-deep in it. Mark was, without a doubt, their mother’s son. He was tall and willowy like her, with the same dark auburn hair, the same dark green eyes and the same “I-am-not-impressed-with-you” stare he seemed to receive when either of them was angry with him. He had also apparently inherited her uncanny ability to miraculously appear from out of nowhere without warning, especially when he was up to no good.
“You know, you shouldn’t go sneaking up on people like that, Mark,” Kane hissed.
“Says the jackass dangling from the window,” Mark shot back. “What are you doing up here, anyway? Mother would beat you senseless if she knew you were--”
“Shhh. Someone might hear you.”
“Me?”
“I’m trying to spy,” Kane informed his brother snidely. “Dad and Paul are doing something in there. I want to know what.”
“You’re not supposed to be up here. You know that.”
“You’re just mad I can see in and you can’t,” said Kane haughtily.
“Yeah? What can you see through there?” Kane scowled.
“Paul’s behind,” he grumbled. Mark regarded him flatly.
“Get down. I’m taking you home.”
“No.”
“I said, get down. Now.”
“Make me.”
He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken; this was a fight he knew he wasn‘t going to win. Kane barely had time to notice the near-imperceptible smirk that flitted over Mark’s features before the older boy grabbed him by the waist and snatched him down. Kane twisted around and took a swing in Mark’s direction, the shift in momentum taking both of them off their feet. They hit the ground and rolled several feet down the slight embankment, Kane clawing at Mark without much avail. When they landed, Kane found himself flipped unceremoniously onto his back and Mark sat on him, hard, utilizing all his weight to pin him to the ground.
“You know, I can think of so many reasons I should rat on you for this. Idiot.” Mark rolled his green eyes and pushed himself off of Kane, standing and brushing the dirt and leaves off his clothes. “Get up.” He reached a hand down and hauled Kane off the ground. “Let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the house, the high August sun beating down on their backs from a cloudless blue sky. They walked in silence a while, Kane keeping his eyes on the ground as he went. There was a particularly interesting rock there, and he scuffed it with his shoe, watching it dance over the dirt.
“Hey, Mark?” he spoke up suddenly.
“Huh?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered what it is that Paul and Dad do, exactly?” Mark shrugged his narrow shoulders and didn’t look at him.
“I know what they do,” he replied neutrally. “They prepare people for what comes after life.” Kane blinked.
“What do you think happens to us when we die, Mark?”
“I don’t know. I try not to think about things like that too much. Neither should you, you hear me?” Kane nodded.
“Yeah.”
A beat passed between them before Mark spoke up again.
“You know, I’m not planning on telling Mom,” he said. “You have to promise me something, though.”
“What?”
“Don’t you go sneaking around up there like that again.”
“Fine.”
“No, I want you to say it.”
“Okay. I promise.”
Mark’s hand came to rest briefly on Kane’s shoulder for a moment, and that was the end of the conversation.
They lapsed back into silence as they continued the long walk home.
FIN
AND I QUOTE.
The following is a holiday request fill for lovewithstands , who requested WWE fic of the Undertaker + Kane sort, with the prompt of "reflecting on childhood." To be honest, it really ended up being more about childhood than reflection at all, but -- IDEK! *hands* I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIVE MY STRAYING. ><; And also, the fact that this is like, 4 years late. >>; MERRY VERY VERY VERY LATE CHRISTMAS! :D
Title: The Trouble With Eavesdropping
Author: E.K. Bradshaw
Fandom: WWE
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: This sandbox is property of Vince McMahon/WWE. I'm just playing in it at night after everyone's gone to bed. Not mine, don't own. Fiction. Move along, please, nothing to see here.
Something was going on inside the mortuary.
He had seen the long, white utility van belonging to the county coroner pull into the drive; he had seen with a sharp eye the covered gurney wheeled carefully from the back of the van. He had seen Mr. Bearer in his black suit hovering nearby like some sort of rotund vulture, and he wondered how it was that the plump man was not sweating to death in the sweltering heat of the Texas afternoon in that suit. Mr. Bearer, pleasant as he was, was a peculiar man to say the least.
The young, curly-haired boy, Kane, had watched as his father and Mr. Bearer moved the gurney inside. It came back empty some time later, and the coroner collected his things and went. The cargo (the body, Kane thought to himself with a sort of jubilant, morbid fascination) had been dropped. Now, whatever it was that his father and Mr. Bearer did with bodies before they were fixed up and put on display in their fancy wooden boxes was taking place, and it occurred to Kane that he had no earthly idea what, exactly, that was. Whatever it was, he was going to find out. Something was going on inside the mortuary, and Kane was determined to see it.
The room where Kane’s father and Mr. Bearer did their most clandestine work was located at the back of the funeral parlor, on the rear side of the building. This, Kane knew, because the back half of the place was barricaded by a door that stayed perpetually locked. Hanging on that door was a big, red sign which read, quite simply, DO NOT ENTER. (For a curious, ten-year-old dervish of a boy like Kane, this was clearly nothing more than an outright challenge.) There was a window, he knew; there had to be, what with the nature of all the stuff they used in there to embalm and fix the corpses. As he crept stealthily around the side of the building, he found one window that was obscured by heavy curtains. There was just enough space between the two panels to peer inside. The only problem Kane found was, the window was high, and he was not quite tall enough to reach it. Even standing on the very tips of his toes, the top of his dark head barely reached the window frame.
Kane cursed inwardly, his mind choosing a colorful word that would have landed him in a world of hurt with his mother. He looked around for an equalizer, something to at least give him a boost up to the window. Luck, as it were, was on his side, as his eye spotted an old flowerpot near the corner of the building. It was half-buried in the dirt, and it took more effort than it should have to pull the monstrosity out (quietly), but he managed to do it. The old thing was the ornamental sort fashioned from heavy concrete, and he did not lift and carry it so much as roll it until it sat upside-down below the window. Finally, he hopped up, grabbing the window ledge for support. The flowerpot wobbled beneath his feet, unsteady on the uneven ground.
He peered inside.
From where he was, he could see a tall, surgical-style table draped with a long, white cloth that nearly reached the floor. His father stood on the other side of the table, clad in a smock and heavy rubber gloves that covered his forearms.
“Circular saw, please,” he said to Mr. Bearer, and just when Kane was thinking to himself that things were just about to get interesting, the large man moved, right into Kane’s line of vision and stayed there, completely eclipsing his view.
The shrill whine of the saw started up. Kane cursed to himself a second time and waited, silently willing the rotund man out of the way. Eventually, he would have to move. He hoped.
So engrossed was Kane with what was undoubtedly taking place inside the building (not that he could see it), he lost track of his immediate surroundings. It wasn’t until a familiar voice spoke up right next to his ear, low and hissed but still enough to startle the living daylights out of him, that Kane realized he was no longer on his own.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Kane jumped, the flowerpot rocking dangerously underfoot, and the four-letter word he had, up until that moment, only thought to himself ejected itself out loud into the air. He clutched the window frame for support and turned, leering at the individual he already knew would be there. And there indeed stood his older brother, arms folded over his chest, eyeing him sternly with the same look their mother gave them when they were knee-deep in it. Mark was, without a doubt, their mother’s son. He was tall and willowy like her, with the same dark auburn hair, the same dark green eyes and the same “I-am-not-impressed-with-you” stare he seemed to receive when either of them was angry with him. He had also apparently inherited her uncanny ability to miraculously appear from out of nowhere without warning, especially when he was up to no good.
“You know, you shouldn’t go sneaking up on people like that, Mark,” Kane hissed.
“Says the jackass dangling from the window,” Mark shot back. “What are you doing up here, anyway? Mother would beat you senseless if she knew you were--”
“Shhh. Someone might hear you.”
“Me?”
“I’m trying to spy,” Kane informed his brother snidely. “Dad and Paul are doing something in there. I want to know what.”
“You’re not supposed to be up here. You know that.”
“You’re just mad I can see in and you can’t,” said Kane haughtily.
“Yeah? What can you see through there?” Kane scowled.
“Paul’s behind,” he grumbled. Mark regarded him flatly.
“Get down. I’m taking you home.”
“No.”
“I said, get down. Now.”
“Make me.”
He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken; this was a fight he knew he wasn‘t going to win. Kane barely had time to notice the near-imperceptible smirk that flitted over Mark’s features before the older boy grabbed him by the waist and snatched him down. Kane twisted around and took a swing in Mark’s direction, the shift in momentum taking both of them off their feet. They hit the ground and rolled several feet down the slight embankment, Kane clawing at Mark without much avail. When they landed, Kane found himself flipped unceremoniously onto his back and Mark sat on him, hard, utilizing all his weight to pin him to the ground.
“You know, I can think of so many reasons I should rat on you for this. Idiot.” Mark rolled his green eyes and pushed himself off of Kane, standing and brushing the dirt and leaves off his clothes. “Get up.” He reached a hand down and hauled Kane off the ground. “Let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the house, the high August sun beating down on their backs from a cloudless blue sky. They walked in silence a while, Kane keeping his eyes on the ground as he went. There was a particularly interesting rock there, and he scuffed it with his shoe, watching it dance over the dirt.
“Hey, Mark?” he spoke up suddenly.
“Huh?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered what it is that Paul and Dad do, exactly?” Mark shrugged his narrow shoulders and didn’t look at him.
“I know what they do,” he replied neutrally. “They prepare people for what comes after life.” Kane blinked.
“What do you think happens to us when we die, Mark?”
“I don’t know. I try not to think about things like that too much. Neither should you, you hear me?” Kane nodded.
“Yeah.”
A beat passed between them before Mark spoke up again.
“You know, I’m not planning on telling Mom,” he said. “You have to promise me something, though.”
“What?”
“Don’t you go sneaking around up there like that again.”
“Fine.”
“No, I want you to say it.”
“Okay. I promise.”
Mark’s hand came to rest briefly on Kane’s shoulder for a moment, and that was the end of the conversation.
They lapsed back into silence as they continued the long walk home.
FIN