Tension Rising (Part 2)
Author: Rkowhore79
Title: Tension Rising (Part 2)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Centon
Summary: Randy lives a very secret and very dark life. Question is, can he trust John to be a part of it?
Warnings: Oh there will be blood...
Disclaimers: Randy isn't really as dark and depraved in real life as I make him out to be in this fic. Or at least I don't think he is;) Shit, you never know though, right?
Word Count: 2,892
Tension Rising (Part 1)
TENSION RISING
His watered down rap music hits and the crowd is on their feet. Cheering and screaming at the top of their lungs for him like he's the second coming and he hasn't even shown himself yet. I shake my head at every last one of them. Sheep. Mindlessly and blindly leading themselves to their own slaughter, I almost feel sorry for them. Almost. But then he does appear and I now wish that I had worn ear plugs that's just how deafening their thunderous applause is. Their hero is here. Their champ. I choke on the word as it dies in my throat. That's my title, I bled rivers of my own blood for that title and I sweated until the point of near exhaustion for that title. It was mine. But, attention is in the details, the keyword being "was". John Cena now held my belt, the honor that was bestowed upon me mere days before and then was just as quickly taken away from me is now his.
I don't take too well to disrespect. To dishonor. To showmanship and one upmanship. It was mine, damn it. I had earned it and I was going to get it back no matter what it took. Just because the sheep bahhhed for Cena and boooed for me didn't warrant the gold being stripped from me, god damn it. Well, tonight was my rematch. Fuck the script. Fuck Vince. John knew the deal and he had paid the ref off in what I suspected was one hell of a blowjob judging by the look that was now creeping across his wormy little face. Good. As long as he knows the deal. As long as he knows that I always get what I want and that I always get what is coming to me. Fuck, just like the little shit in the front row is going to get what is coming to him as soon as the show is over. But I digress.
John holds my gaze as I stand leering down at him from my vantage point in the middle of the ring, the cameras capturing every twitch of my lip, every blink of my eyes, or lack thereof, for live TV. 'And it's you that knows me least of all, Scarecrow,' I mutter to myself as he holds the belt high above his head for the sheep so that they can get their pictures before he hauls ass into the ring.
"Get 'em while they're hot," I sneer under my breath. "He's not gonna be your champ for much longer, that's for damn sure."
True to my unheard word the match is over quickly, much to the crowd's surprise and chagrin and when I hold the WWE championship high above my head in victory from the top rope it is the man's voice in the front row that I hear. "You SUCK! You ain't shit, Orton!" Oh really? Well by the time I'm through with him he'll be covered in it. His own. I smile as I hold the belt up with my right hand, my head thrown back in sheer pleasure, directly over him. I hope my smile scares him, I hope it has him quivering in his twenty dollar New Balances. This time instead of wanting to blend in, I hope my smile sends a bolt of fear down this man's spine.
I hear the sizzling crackle of my string as a fiber comes undone. Fuck. Gotta tone it down a bit. Tone down the "smile", so as not to alarm and scare off the sheep. Instantly I revert back to my usual predatory stare and, oddly enough, no one is afraid or wary of that one. Go figure. Our eyes lock and I commit every detail of his ugly face to memory. Nobody gets away with mocking me. Not if I don't want them to. I continue flaunting my win high above the crowd all the while keeping one eye trained on him as he downs the rest of his beer and drops the bottle down where it joins countless others. Behind me John writhes in psuedo "pain" from the devastating RKO that I delivered to him not moments earlier. God, I hate that move. It doesn't even look like it hurts and yet it's supposed to knock my opponents out long enough for me to get the win? Fuck, if I used the moves I'd really like to use they'd be down for the count and then some. Shit nobody'd be getting up after those. But whatever, so it goes...preen for the cameras, sell the injury from the RKO, hold the belt up, really rub it in their faces. Do your fuckin' part.
My part lasts for only about a minute or so and then just as soon as it began it's over. The crowd is starting to sit back down and a bolt of electricity runs through me as I make my way back up the ramp, the heavy belt thrown over my perfectly sculpted and tanned shoulder. Forty five minutes left in the show.
Front row guy is mine. "F.R.G." I mumble. "Fuckin' frog. Your ass is mine, Frog."
Still muttering to myself, I make my way back towards the locker room, stopping only to accept a few congrats from a diva here and there and brushing off all the others. Fucking fags. They don't know me either. John will join me soon, as soon as he's done selling his ridiculous "injury" that is. I shake my head. It's so humiliating, going out there night after night and delivering what I consider to be one of the worst finishing moves in history. Sure, I coined it, named it after me but if I had told the powers that be what I had really wanted to use as a finisher? Shit, they'd have had me locked up quicker than you could scream "kayfabe". So I stuck with it, I let them commercialize me, to brand and package me. Shit, it was no skin off my back.
I can't promise anything about theirs though.
The locker room smells like musk and disappointment, like victory and defeat, like ass and dirty socks. All mixed together to form one putrid odor that clings to everything and everyone that enters its doors. The heady aroma makes my already pounding skull ache and I drop down heavily onto the closest bench with a long suffering sigh, tossing the belt down next to me.
They all test me. They test my patience, my resolve but worst of all they test my intelligence. They think that I am unaware of the way they look at me, of the image of me that they have drawn up in their meek little minds. They will all pay; every last one of them. Nobody judges me, nobody knows who and what I truly am. They will though; I'll show it to them, spell it out to them in their own blood if I have to.
I close my eyes and just take a few seconds to breathe, to steady my racing heart, to try and tamp down the fiery rage that is churning in my gut. I can't be going off all half cocked, that definitely wouldn't be good for anybody, least of all me. The room tilts slightly and I feel a sense of deja vu wash over me, I'm sitting in the same place I was not thirty minutes ago, ducking away from John's camera happy hands and trying to calm myself down only this time John isn't here with me. He most likely won't be back for a few minutes either and so I use these free moments to gather my thoughts as well as my clothes and toiletries before heading back to the showers where I quickly lather up and wash the sweat and oil from my lithe body.
I can't get front row guy's voice out of my head. The sound echoes around in my skull, bouncing off the walls of my brain until I can't take it anymore and I drop down to one knee, covering my ears with both hands. I don't even realize how tightly I am squeezing until I start to feel all the blood rush to my head and I swiftly drop my hands. This isn't like me; I don't lose control. Ever. I grit my teeth and stand up quickly, rinsing the soap from my body in mere seconds and then toweling off in the same amount of time.
"Get a grip, Orton," I mutter to myself as I pull on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that I procure from my gym bag. A quick tug of my black boots complete the outfit and I am out the door in record time. The roar of the crowd follows behind me as I make my way out of the building and to the parking lot and I am happy to escape their bahhhing. John'll just have to find his own ride back to the hotel tonight, I've got other plans.
I make a beeline for my rental car, unlocking it and tossing my bag and the belt into the trunk. It lands right next to a bag similar in size but very different in contents and it's this bag that I pick up and bring with me into the car where I slide into the front seat and lock the doors. I unzip the satchel and take inventory of its contents, perusing them one by one, stopping to trace a slender finger down one and up another.
"Mmmmm," I sigh, my erection straining against the tight fabric of my jeans as I lovingly caress my tools, trying to decide just which one gets to be the lucky one tonight. Which one gets the honor of making ol' froggy boy croak.
"You," I decide aloud, selecting the sharpest blade out of the lot; the one with the curved tip. Yes, he thinks he's so funny? Well this one'll put a nice permanent smile on Frog's face. Let's just see who gets the last laugh then, shall we?
Pleased with my decision, I set the bag and its contents on the passenger seat and start the car intending to head over to the parking garage which is where Frog is most likely to be parked. A wrench is thrown into my not so carefully thought out plan, though, in the form of about ten screaming and hyperventilating girls ranging in age from oh I'd say fifteen to thirty.
Fuck. I am not in the mood for this tonight, nor do I have the time or patience and so I give them all a quick nod of my head and a brief wave, being careful not to use my "smile" on them, before I burn rubber out of the back parking lot. I see them in the rear view mirror with their signs and their magazines and I almost feel a little bad that I didn't stay to say a few hellos and to sign a few autographs but I have far more important things to do right now. If they're like the rest of the sheep they'll show up at the next show anyway as well as the one after that and the one after that. Yes, I'm sure we'll all meet again and then I'll sign a few photos, pose for a few pictures, really make sure that string is firmly attached and not in any danger of snapping anytime soon.
***
"Where the fuck is he going?" John wonders out loud, watching from the rear of the building as Randy gets into the rental car. "I 'spose to find my own ride back or something? Shit. Thanks a lot for telling me, asshole." Realizing that he is standing there talking to himself, John quickly looks around and satisfied that there is no one around to hear him he narrows his eyes down the parking lot. Randy must be in another one of his moods tonight. He'd have thought that winning the belt back, no matter how underhandedly, would have made Randy at least a little more bearable to be around for a while. Maybe make him crack a smile even. John pictures Randy's smile and then shivers slightly.
"Or not," he recants, quickly taking back the idea. There was something...not quite right with Randy's smile; something off. Something that made John's flesh break out into millions of tiny hair raising bumps when he was caught off guard by it. John shakes his head after the rapidly disappearing lights of Randy's rental before sighing heavily and making his way back inside to gather his things and to find a ride back to the hotel. Randy's strange behavior and eerie facial expressions aside, he was still the man that John loved; the man he'd go to hell and back for.
He just had no idea at the moment how real that sentiment was about to become.
***
"Come out come out wherever you are, Froggy," I mutter, tapping the pads of my long fingers against the steering wheel. I have positioned the car on the lower level of the parking garage, facing the door that Frog is most likely to enter being as how it is closest to the entrance of the arena. My eyes are narrowed in the dark confines of the car, my neck craned forward as I watch the door intently. My lip turns up slightly as the sheep start to march through, chattering and bahhing, obviously still high off of the sheer thrill and excitement of the live show. They blather on and on about the matches, about the finishes and I hear a few off color remarks about a few of the divas that give me a chuckle but then just as quickly my mouth frowns back up and I am refocused on the task at hand.
Shouldn't be much longer now depending on whether or not ol Froggy boy was sticking around to purchase some of the extremely mark-ed up merchandise that the arena vendors were hawking. But I'm fine with that, let him pither away his last few dollars on some pathetic piece of crap. It was, afterall, the last thing that he'd ever be buying.
"Better make it good, Froggy," I whisper in a sing song voice. "Make sure you choose really carefully...." My voice drifts off as I start to feel the familiar thickening in my head, the foggy, almost dream-like state that I experience from time to time.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Not now!" I grunt out loud, pounding my fist against the steering wheel. The blaring of the horn startles the hell out of me and I jump, the top of my head hitting the roof of the car. A few people are starting to look my way and I quickly lower my head, removing myself from their prying eyes.
"Move along, sheep," I mutter under my breath, gritting my teeth hard enough to break glass. I let a few minutes pass before daring to peek up out the windshield. I hope to fuck I haven't missed Frog. That will be a monumental disappointment if I have. I give myself a mental shake, swiping the cobwebs from my fuzzy head with my invisible broom. It won't bode well for me to have one of my episodes right here, I actually can't think of a worse place I could have one except maybe in the ring and so far that hasn't happened and I have no fear of it even ever happening really. No, it's usually a little nuisance that takes place when my blood is pumping and the adrenaline is flowing and I'm high on just the thought of the kill. On just the prospect of it.
It's like the fog that rolls in right before a big storm. The warning to those that live right there on the water to get their asses the fuck back to the mainland before they get swept up in it. But this is a warning that I, and only I, can hear. The rest of civilization was SOL. My head is starting to clear a little and my vision refocuses itself once again on the door.
"Good," I sigh, telling myself it's not time yet. I can't afford to be submerged within my trance like state right now. Not before my dear little Froggy has even made his appearance. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and wipe my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans before leaning forward again.
There! Right there, walking hand in hand with the hot chick. I spy him laughing and swinging a large bag, the WWE logo displayed prominently across the front. Do I know my sheep or what? My lip curls up as I watch them make their way across the rows of cars. My eyes follow them, watching their every move and when I see him hit a button on his keychain and the lights on a light blue Toyota Camry flick on and off I smile. I smile and laugh the laugh of a thousand devils burning endlessly in the fiery pits of damnation.
"Ribbit, ribbit," I whisper, my smile cutting an eerie, twisted shadow across my face.