Backseat Driver
"Aww, Christ!" Hunter muttered to himself, having opened his duffel, "My jacket's soaked through!"
Jesse didn't even look up from his task at hand (staring into the mirror as he nimbly attempted to rethread his braids) as he announced, "Them's the breaks, Hunt."
Hunter shot Jesse a dirty look, "It's my denim-and-leather one; it's not supposed to get wet!" He held it out at the tips of his fingers and asked, "Where's your wardrobe mistress?"
Jesse barely stifled his laughter; Hunter's frown lines deepened as he glared. "What's so fuckin' funny?"
Jesse permitted himself a loud snicker, "Sherri Martel's out there directin' traffic and you wanna know where our wardrobe mistress is! Are you gonna ask me for a late with skim next?"
Hunter took a deep breath, shaking the jacket out before putting it on a hanger, "I'm still getting used to this, Jes."
"Oh, you will. Quickly." Bitterness seeped out of Jesse's tone.
"Look, I'm sorry I didn't go to bat for you with Vince," Hunter began, as he stripped away his streetclothes and rummaging through his duffle for a pair of tights, "But you've gotta understand what kind of position I was in."
"Oh yeah," Jesse snorted, braiding and rebraiding the same strand of hair repeatedly, "Under Stephanie."
Hunter rolled his eyes skyward, "You were fucked up on drugs. Everyone got sick of trying to make up excuses for you."
"That's a great excuse to turn on a friend," Jesse icily intoned.
"I don't want this to affect our working relationship," Hunter plunged on, "When I spoke to Terry last week he kept saying that he wants to put us together."
Jesse retied the final braid on his hair, turning away from the single, long mirror that served the entire dressing area. Hunter was suddenly made keenly aware of their fellow wrestlers milling about, apparently lost in their own mileau. He hadn't been forced to mingle with so many people since his pre-Kliq days, when he inhabited the gimmick of "Terra Ryzing." In WCW.
"This conversation's over," Jesse snapped, "But if you don't fuck with me, I ain't gonna bother to fuck with ya. Tell Terry I've gotta go score somethin' to get me through tonight.." Hunter's eyes burrowed beneath the furrow of his brow. Jesse laughed uproariously, "Shit! You still can't take a joke, Hunt! I need to go take a piss. Oh, and we're sharing latrines with the concessionaires, out by the ticket booths; only working men's room back here belongs to Max Andrews, and he ain't sharin' his it with nobody."
Hunter waved back weakly, his resolve limp as his soaked hair. Catching site of Lucy, sleeping beneath the long wooden benches that served as chairs, his fingers burrowed into the folds of fat upon her neck.
"Nothing ever bothers you, does it?" He asked his pet tiredly. One eye opened and stared in his direction (And he would have sworn to the bitter end that amusement showed in Lucy's face).
"Hey, nice dog," came Terry Funk's voice as he entered the room, "GENTLEMEN!" He addressed the entire locker room, "PLEASE COVER ALL UNMANNED RIGS! INCOMMING FEMALE TALENT!" Towels whipped into place around waists as an amused Sherri Martel and several younger women whose faces Hunter couldn't clearly place entered the room.
"Yer such a gentlemen, Terry," Sherri smirked, dumping her duffel onto the bench facing Hunter. "It ain't nothing I haven't seen before."
"Oh, I know that," Terry laughed. Then he saw Hunter, "Gameboy!! I've been meaning to introduce you," He wrapped his arms around a willowy, beautiful blond, "This is your valet! Don't you recognize her?"
Hunter frowned, "Uh.." He stared into her placid features, while she chewed at her bottom lip.
"She said you worked together..."
"There were a lot of blondes in the WWF during my time," Hunter smirked.
"My name's Alicia Webb," The girl announced, putting her hand forward, "Ryan Shamrock?"
"Ryan Sham..." His eyes widened, "Ohh!! The stripper who was doing the incest angle with Ken Shamrock!"
"Yeah. I'm flattered you remember." Ryan held the very tips of Hunter's fingers, as though they were diseased.
"Hey, I'm sorry; we went through a lot of girls."
"Titan Christmas Party. 1998." She said suddenly. His brow furrowed again, trying to recall why this seemed to ring a tinny bell in his subconscious. "You puked all over me."
Hunter's entire countenance became sheepish as he seemed to recall, "Ahh....that wasn't a good year for me." He lied.
"It was an even worse year for Champale." Ryan smirked. Mercifully, Terry cut off their conversation, dragging Hunter to one of the labyrinthine outside halls.
"OK, you're booked to go over tonight, but I want you to make this kid look good." He bellowed to his immediate left, "TINY JOE!! Come meet Hunter!"
A hugely obese man lumbered down the hallway, swathed in overalls and a red tee-shirt. Chewing at a chunk of gum, a gesture that caused his long beard to wave like a flag, he trollied to a stop before Hunter. "Pleased to meet you," He announced, in a thick southern accent, it sounded more like "Pleesda Meetya."
"He just graduated from the Monster Factory!" Announced Terry, with a brief pat to Hunter's back, "Make him look good!" And at his word he went off to attend to some other matter. Hunter looked up (All the way up; the kid stood several inches taller than he).
"Uh...you know what an armbar is, kid? We could start out with a collar and elbow...ah shit, do you know what a collar is? Or an elbow?"
Tiny Joe grinned, "Waddya know," his voice came out in a thick, Brooklyneese honk, "This costume's so good, it made The Game mark out." He shook his head, "I guess quitting Harvard Law WAS the best move after all!"
Hunter felt a deep throbbing begin in his temples. He had a feeling that it wasn't about to abate..