Post by Rachel on Jun 1, 2007 0:32:36 GMT -5
A man dressed in khakis and a long sleeved, denim shirt baring the XVI logo is standing in what appears to be a hospital waiting room. He smiles nice and big for the camera, despite the grave circumstances that he is reporting under.
Jack Daniels: I am standing here in the Southwest Regional Medical Center in Little Rock, Arkansas, awaiting the update of the condition of two of XVI’s own superstars, both transported to this hospital immediately following the hellacious event, Highway to Hell. Very soon, I shall be able to find out the state of former XVI Champion Szaban, who lost his title last night in a match against Jihad, and Rachel, the former XVI Xtreme Champion, who crumpled at the impact of several chair shots delivered by XVI’s new Xtreme Champion, Calaz.
Just as J.D. finishes his little introduction, Rachel and Szaban round the corner of the building. Jack rushes over, eagerly awaiting his opportunity to deliver the news of the night! Rachel looks very drowsy and disoriented, obviously feeling the side effects of a very large, very strong painkiller. Her forehead is sporting a large bandage. She looks absolutely terrible. Szaban doesn’t look quite so terrible, though he definitely does seem to be less than his usual vivacious self. He is a man who has been beaten, broken but not bested. As they walk forward, a loud voice can be heard behind them.
“I really must protest, Ms. Martin! Mr. Szaban, please, talk some reason into your ex-wife. She really should not be leaving the hospital in her condition!”
Szaban slowly turns to face the female doctor who has a look of concern upon her face.
Szaban: Realize, Dr. Maxwell, that she is my ex-wife. I could not talk sense into her during our marriage, what makes you think that I can do it now? She doesn’t want to stay - she’s not going to stay.
Rachel: That’s right…
Rachel’s speech is slightly slurred.
Dr. Maxwell: I really, really must insist that someone stay with her tonight, Mr. Szaban. She is in no condition to be left alone.
Rachel rounds on the woman, displaying the attitude that got her into this mess in the first place.
Rachel: I…am fine! I am just not feeling very well, is all, Doctor. If that’s your real name!
Szaban gives a tiny smile and catches Rachel by the wrist.
Szaban: Come along, dear, before you need another few stitches…
Rachel: But I thought that bitches get stitches…
Szaban laughs.
Szaban: Exactly!
Jack Daniels rushes forward, catapulted into action at the potential of losing his scoop.
Jack Daniels: Szaban, can you comment on this situation?
Szaban: Get out of my face, Daniels. This is obviously not the right time.
Jack backs down quickly, miffed at not getting his personal interview, but much too cowardly to push the issue any farther. He watches the duo sluggishly make their way through the automatic doors and into a taxicab.
***
The sky outside is dark; daylight has not yet sprung to life over the horizon. The cab drives on, the man in the driver’s seat quietly maneuvering through the city streets, making his way to 10520 West Markham Street, the address of Candlewood Suites. In the back seat, Rachel is slumped over with her head on Szaban’s shoulder. He is staring out the window as she turns her green eyes up to his face.
Rachel: Matt, why did I lose?
Szaban turns his head and looks down at her sad face.
Szaban: Because, Calaz is an animal. He is insane. He hit you seven times with a steel chair. You shouldn’t even be in this car right now. You should be back at the hospital.
Rachel: And for what? So they can put a 36th stitch into my forehead? I don’t think so!
Szaban ignores her childish remark.
Szaban: And on top of that, you went out there into the Ultimate Assault match, which it was beyond me how you even could see straight enough to walk down the ramp without falling over.
Rachel: Matt, I’m so tired of not being taken seriously…
She’s quiet for a moment and then sits up all the way and leans her head against the cool glass window.
Rachel: Hey, sorry about your match with Jihad by the way. You’re still the Champion of Champions as far as I’m concerned. That prick is more conceited than you are.
Szaban: I think that was a compliment?
Their discussion is cut short as they pull up to the hotel. The little, yellow car parks under an overhang located directly in front of the hotel lobby. Szaban pushes the door open, slides out, and helps Rachel out of the car behind him. She yawns loudly and he follows suit, the yawn disease spreading from mouth to mouth.
Szaban: Shall we?
Rachel: If we must.
Szaban: What room are you in?
Rachel stops for a moment, trying desperately to use her addled brain to recall her room number.
Rachel: Uh…1254.
Szaban nods his head. They turn and pass through the entry doors. To their immediate right there is a desk with a pretty woman standing behind it. Her long, black hair is pulled behind her in a ponytail. She is wearing a white blouse with a black jacket over top. A string of pearls reflects the light from their place around her neck.
Woman: May I help you?
Szaban turns and points to Rachel.
Szaban: She’s in room 1254. I want her things moved to my room, 1278. She will be staying in their for tonight.
Rachel turns dull eyes on Szaban.
Rachel: Your room? Whoa, I don’t think so. You’re not taking advantage of me in this condition!
Szaban laughs once more and licks his lips.
Szaban: Who’s conceited now? The doctor said you’re not supposed to be left alone. There is a bed and there is also a couch in my room. You take the bed and I’ll crash on the couch.
Szaban turns back to the hotel clerk.
Szaban: Bring her things to room 1278.
The pair makes their way to the elevator and Szaban pushes the call button. A few seconds later, the golden doors slowly open to reveal an empty elevator and they step inside. As the doors close, Rachel can be heard saying…
“You know, it probably would have been easier to move your stuff, as I have so much…”
***
A large, green door with little golden numbers nailed into it looms over a long, carpeted hallway. The numbers read 1278. Suddenly, the door swings open and Rachel steps out looking slightly refreshed but not very happy. Behind her she is pulling a black, rolling suitcase. Her hair is down, covering her face slightly in what appears to be a pitiful attempt at hiding the bandage on her forehead. She is wearing a pair of black track pants with white stripes running up the side and a white spaghetti strap shirt. She leans against the beige hallway wall and waits for the door to open once more. As it does, Szaban steps out in a blue ‘Szaban: Champion of Champions’ tee shirt and black Nike pants. He is holding a blue duffel bag and looking groggy.
Szaban: Ready for coffee?
Rachel glares at him, obviously upset about something.
Rachel: Its too damn early for coffee…Its too damn early to be awake after a night like that! I forgot how incredibly ridiculous you are after big pay-per-view events.
Szaban: Well, I didn’t win championship after championship by sleeping in, did I?
Rachel just remains silent as they make their way down the hallway and into the elevator. She glances at Szaban, noting how odd it is to see him without a large, golden belt over his shoulder.
The elevator ride to the lobby is quiet and both former champions look exhausted. There is a loud ‘ding’ and the elevator stops. The doors slowly open and the couple heads into the café at the far end of the lobby. They seat themselves at a table, both ordering coffee from the young waiter who arrives at their table. Neither speaks until he returns, and they have properly decorated their coffee with the preferred amount of sweetener.
Rachel: So…When did you start snoring?
Szaban looks startled.
Szaban: I don’t snore!
Rachel raises an eyebrow in incongruity.
Rachel: And when did you become delusional?
Szaban scowls at her for a moment. Finally, he smiles and licks his lips in that characteristic way of his.
Szaban: At least I don’t drool on my pillow.
Rachel: I don’t drool!
Rachel’s voice is loud, and several early customers look over in her direction. She glares at them and then lowers her octave to nearly a whisper.
Rachel: I don’t drool. That was…
She stops, at a loss for what to say. Szaban retains his smirk.
Szaban: Uh-huh?
Rachel: That was none of your damn business!
Szaban shakes his head and slowly sips at his coffee.
Szaban: So…
He puts the yellow mug down on the table. His cell phone begins to ring in his duffel bag and he reaches in to pull it out. He looks down at the cell phone and presses a few buttons. Then his head snaps up and he locks eyes with Rachel.
Szaban: What are you going to do about this match with Corporal Punishment?
Rachel appears startled.
Rachel: Match?
Szaban: Yeah, Makaveli just sent me the card in a text.
Rachel rolls her eyes.
Rachel: That man! Anything to bring a little money in…
Rachel looks contemplatively at the ceiling for a moment.
Rachel: Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win, that’s for sure. I have never had a man mulch the flowerbed before, except for hired help, and I refuse to be defeated by a patriotic gardener!
Szaban: That sounds promising.
Rachel: Well, excuse me; I just got my head beat in. I don’t really think that I am up to creating a full on war strategy here!
Szaban: Why do you always use military puns when you’re talking about him?
Rachel: Because I think they’re decidedly clever!
Rachel looks smug and takes a large gulp of her coffee. Suddenly her face contorts into a strange look and she quickly reaches down and unzips the front pocket of her duffel bag. She pulls out her a little orange bottle with a white cap.
Szaban: Time for a painkiller?
Rachel scowls in frustration.
Rachel: I hate these damned things. They barely touch the pain.
Szaban: And yet you’re popping them like they're Mentos.
Rachel ignores his rib and she tosses one into her mouth and chases it down with a quick swig of coffee.
Rachel: As far as I am concerned, injury or no injury, defeat or no defeat, last night was a fluke and Side Effect is not going to be another one! I am going to go in there and beat Corp’s head into the mat, and then I am going to stomp on it some more, and then, when I feel like I’ve proven my point enough, I’ll pin him and beat him…Again.
Szaban: And just what is your point?
Rachel: That I am not a woman any man should scorn!
Szaban shakes his head in agreement and raises his cup to his lips only to realize the contents are all gone. He puts the cup down, and throws a ten on the table, deciding that will cover the cost of the coffee and the tip. He stands and Rachel downs her last sip. She places her cup on the table and rises as well. They both grab their luggage and begin to exit the café.
Szaban: C’mon, woman. We’ve got a plane to catch.
Rachel groans as they exit the hotel lobby and slip into a cab. The car drives off into the early morning, heading towards the airport, and then several unknown destinations of the day.
Jack Daniels: I am standing here in the Southwest Regional Medical Center in Little Rock, Arkansas, awaiting the update of the condition of two of XVI’s own superstars, both transported to this hospital immediately following the hellacious event, Highway to Hell. Very soon, I shall be able to find out the state of former XVI Champion Szaban, who lost his title last night in a match against Jihad, and Rachel, the former XVI Xtreme Champion, who crumpled at the impact of several chair shots delivered by XVI’s new Xtreme Champion, Calaz.
Just as J.D. finishes his little introduction, Rachel and Szaban round the corner of the building. Jack rushes over, eagerly awaiting his opportunity to deliver the news of the night! Rachel looks very drowsy and disoriented, obviously feeling the side effects of a very large, very strong painkiller. Her forehead is sporting a large bandage. She looks absolutely terrible. Szaban doesn’t look quite so terrible, though he definitely does seem to be less than his usual vivacious self. He is a man who has been beaten, broken but not bested. As they walk forward, a loud voice can be heard behind them.
“I really must protest, Ms. Martin! Mr. Szaban, please, talk some reason into your ex-wife. She really should not be leaving the hospital in her condition!”
Szaban slowly turns to face the female doctor who has a look of concern upon her face.
Szaban: Realize, Dr. Maxwell, that she is my ex-wife. I could not talk sense into her during our marriage, what makes you think that I can do it now? She doesn’t want to stay - she’s not going to stay.
Rachel: That’s right…
Rachel’s speech is slightly slurred.
Dr. Maxwell: I really, really must insist that someone stay with her tonight, Mr. Szaban. She is in no condition to be left alone.
Rachel rounds on the woman, displaying the attitude that got her into this mess in the first place.
Rachel: I…am fine! I am just not feeling very well, is all, Doctor. If that’s your real name!
Szaban gives a tiny smile and catches Rachel by the wrist.
Szaban: Come along, dear, before you need another few stitches…
Rachel: But I thought that bitches get stitches…
Szaban laughs.
Szaban: Exactly!
Jack Daniels rushes forward, catapulted into action at the potential of losing his scoop.
Jack Daniels: Szaban, can you comment on this situation?
Szaban: Get out of my face, Daniels. This is obviously not the right time.
Jack backs down quickly, miffed at not getting his personal interview, but much too cowardly to push the issue any farther. He watches the duo sluggishly make their way through the automatic doors and into a taxicab.
***
The sky outside is dark; daylight has not yet sprung to life over the horizon. The cab drives on, the man in the driver’s seat quietly maneuvering through the city streets, making his way to 10520 West Markham Street, the address of Candlewood Suites. In the back seat, Rachel is slumped over with her head on Szaban’s shoulder. He is staring out the window as she turns her green eyes up to his face.
Rachel: Matt, why did I lose?
Szaban turns his head and looks down at her sad face.
Szaban: Because, Calaz is an animal. He is insane. He hit you seven times with a steel chair. You shouldn’t even be in this car right now. You should be back at the hospital.
Rachel: And for what? So they can put a 36th stitch into my forehead? I don’t think so!
Szaban ignores her childish remark.
Szaban: And on top of that, you went out there into the Ultimate Assault match, which it was beyond me how you even could see straight enough to walk down the ramp without falling over.
Rachel: Matt, I’m so tired of not being taken seriously…
She’s quiet for a moment and then sits up all the way and leans her head against the cool glass window.
Rachel: Hey, sorry about your match with Jihad by the way. You’re still the Champion of Champions as far as I’m concerned. That prick is more conceited than you are.
Szaban: I think that was a compliment?
Their discussion is cut short as they pull up to the hotel. The little, yellow car parks under an overhang located directly in front of the hotel lobby. Szaban pushes the door open, slides out, and helps Rachel out of the car behind him. She yawns loudly and he follows suit, the yawn disease spreading from mouth to mouth.
Szaban: Shall we?
Rachel: If we must.
Szaban: What room are you in?
Rachel stops for a moment, trying desperately to use her addled brain to recall her room number.
Rachel: Uh…1254.
Szaban nods his head. They turn and pass through the entry doors. To their immediate right there is a desk with a pretty woman standing behind it. Her long, black hair is pulled behind her in a ponytail. She is wearing a white blouse with a black jacket over top. A string of pearls reflects the light from their place around her neck.
Woman: May I help you?
Szaban turns and points to Rachel.
Szaban: She’s in room 1254. I want her things moved to my room, 1278. She will be staying in their for tonight.
Rachel turns dull eyes on Szaban.
Rachel: Your room? Whoa, I don’t think so. You’re not taking advantage of me in this condition!
Szaban laughs once more and licks his lips.
Szaban: Who’s conceited now? The doctor said you’re not supposed to be left alone. There is a bed and there is also a couch in my room. You take the bed and I’ll crash on the couch.
Szaban turns back to the hotel clerk.
Szaban: Bring her things to room 1278.
The pair makes their way to the elevator and Szaban pushes the call button. A few seconds later, the golden doors slowly open to reveal an empty elevator and they step inside. As the doors close, Rachel can be heard saying…
“You know, it probably would have been easier to move your stuff, as I have so much…”
***
A large, green door with little golden numbers nailed into it looms over a long, carpeted hallway. The numbers read 1278. Suddenly, the door swings open and Rachel steps out looking slightly refreshed but not very happy. Behind her she is pulling a black, rolling suitcase. Her hair is down, covering her face slightly in what appears to be a pitiful attempt at hiding the bandage on her forehead. She is wearing a pair of black track pants with white stripes running up the side and a white spaghetti strap shirt. She leans against the beige hallway wall and waits for the door to open once more. As it does, Szaban steps out in a blue ‘Szaban: Champion of Champions’ tee shirt and black Nike pants. He is holding a blue duffel bag and looking groggy.
Szaban: Ready for coffee?
Rachel glares at him, obviously upset about something.
Rachel: Its too damn early for coffee…Its too damn early to be awake after a night like that! I forgot how incredibly ridiculous you are after big pay-per-view events.
Szaban: Well, I didn’t win championship after championship by sleeping in, did I?
Rachel just remains silent as they make their way down the hallway and into the elevator. She glances at Szaban, noting how odd it is to see him without a large, golden belt over his shoulder.
The elevator ride to the lobby is quiet and both former champions look exhausted. There is a loud ‘ding’ and the elevator stops. The doors slowly open and the couple heads into the café at the far end of the lobby. They seat themselves at a table, both ordering coffee from the young waiter who arrives at their table. Neither speaks until he returns, and they have properly decorated their coffee with the preferred amount of sweetener.
Rachel: So…When did you start snoring?
Szaban looks startled.
Szaban: I don’t snore!
Rachel raises an eyebrow in incongruity.
Rachel: And when did you become delusional?
Szaban scowls at her for a moment. Finally, he smiles and licks his lips in that characteristic way of his.
Szaban: At least I don’t drool on my pillow.
Rachel: I don’t drool!
Rachel’s voice is loud, and several early customers look over in her direction. She glares at them and then lowers her octave to nearly a whisper.
Rachel: I don’t drool. That was…
She stops, at a loss for what to say. Szaban retains his smirk.
Szaban: Uh-huh?
Rachel: That was none of your damn business!
Szaban shakes his head and slowly sips at his coffee.
Szaban: So…
He puts the yellow mug down on the table. His cell phone begins to ring in his duffel bag and he reaches in to pull it out. He looks down at the cell phone and presses a few buttons. Then his head snaps up and he locks eyes with Rachel.
Szaban: What are you going to do about this match with Corporal Punishment?
Rachel appears startled.
Rachel: Match?
Szaban: Yeah, Makaveli just sent me the card in a text.
Rachel rolls her eyes.
Rachel: That man! Anything to bring a little money in…
Rachel looks contemplatively at the ceiling for a moment.
Rachel: Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win, that’s for sure. I have never had a man mulch the flowerbed before, except for hired help, and I refuse to be defeated by a patriotic gardener!
Szaban: That sounds promising.
Rachel: Well, excuse me; I just got my head beat in. I don’t really think that I am up to creating a full on war strategy here!
Szaban: Why do you always use military puns when you’re talking about him?
Rachel: Because I think they’re decidedly clever!
Rachel looks smug and takes a large gulp of her coffee. Suddenly her face contorts into a strange look and she quickly reaches down and unzips the front pocket of her duffel bag. She pulls out her a little orange bottle with a white cap.
Szaban: Time for a painkiller?
Rachel scowls in frustration.
Rachel: I hate these damned things. They barely touch the pain.
Szaban: And yet you’re popping them like they're Mentos.
Rachel ignores his rib and she tosses one into her mouth and chases it down with a quick swig of coffee.
Rachel: As far as I am concerned, injury or no injury, defeat or no defeat, last night was a fluke and Side Effect is not going to be another one! I am going to go in there and beat Corp’s head into the mat, and then I am going to stomp on it some more, and then, when I feel like I’ve proven my point enough, I’ll pin him and beat him…Again.
Szaban: And just what is your point?
Rachel: That I am not a woman any man should scorn!
Szaban shakes his head in agreement and raises his cup to his lips only to realize the contents are all gone. He puts the cup down, and throws a ten on the table, deciding that will cover the cost of the coffee and the tip. He stands and Rachel downs her last sip. She places her cup on the table and rises as well. They both grab their luggage and begin to exit the café.
Szaban: C’mon, woman. We’ve got a plane to catch.
Rachel groans as they exit the hotel lobby and slip into a cab. The car drives off into the early morning, heading towards the airport, and then several unknown destinations of the day.