Backseat Driver

In a hotel in downtown Dallas, a suitcase clicked open with authority. Its owner grunted to himself as he surrounded its sturdy handle with his balled fist, drawing the weight upward, open-facing its contents to the world.

"Eight years," He remarked to the canine stretched flat across his mattress, "And all I leave with is this," He dangled a pair of jockey briefs in mid-air, using it as a visual aid to explain to his pup exactly where the past two years of their lives had gone.

Lucy raised a single eye to her master's voice, motionless, as sarcastic as a dog could possibly be. Hunter smiled and scooped up his favorite girl, nuzzling her muzzle affectionately, "Awww, Lucy girl; I know you don't like to travel a lot, but daddy just got fired." He smirked to himself, recalling with a sense of self-satisfaction that his last meeting with Vince McMahon had involved a sledgehammer crashing through a thirtieth story window at Titan Towers; followed by a desk.....and a large sum of money headed for payroll.

If he had to be ostracized from the only game in town, he would do so memorably.

So an impression he had left; an impression that wasn't helping him get work anywhere else. His mini-rampage had managed to make front-page news on all of the dirt sheets and webpages; every booker he'd contacted in pursuit of work had hung up on him. Even his closest friend, Shawn Michaels, turned down an offer to open up a small promotion.

"Look, I don't have the insurance to keep you," One of the many informed him, "But I know a good shoot promotion that would love to do business..."

He had been worried that he'd never be able to nail down another booking when Terry Funk called, offering him a semi-permanent position working for a small independent promotion that he hoped to feed graduates from his brother's Funkin' Conservatory into. It would be quite a comedown; he knew the first headline to herald his comeback would refer to him as a 'Disgraced former Champion'. But it would all be worth it, just to get to work.

And to eventually smash Stephanie's smug little face in with the fact that he could make it in the world without the WWF backing him.

"Come on, Luce," he slipped his fingers through a loop in her leash, "We've got some ass to kick tonight."

***

Halfway to the Sportitorium, the grayness of the sky-cracked open, sending rain in blankets down the highway.

"Fuck," He muttered to himself; watching his windshield wipers swipe valiantly at thunderous torrents of rain that seemed to maliciously coat his windshield. Lucy, unpreturbed by a little bit of wetness, stood with her forelegs and head jutting out of the rolled-down passenger side window, pug tail wagging back-and-forth jauntily as she soaked up her first Texas thunderstorm.

Hunter frowned his way through the oncoming exit ramp, which he smoothly managed to traverse; it put him on a wooded back road. There were signs posted everywhere, letters running in the rain, having, at one time, read "T l t E t r Here". His expensive SUV bucked as he hit a cement incline, zooming up a paved hill. In front of him, a huge, white building loomed; the Sporitorium; Fritz Von Erich's old domain and a former sales barn.

Rain pounded downward still, blurring the sudden apparition of a yellow-slickered figure a few inches from his bumper. It motioned for him to turn, and drive, which he did, until he settled into an empty space between two sports cars. As he unhooked Lucy's leash and stepped out into the pouring rain, Hunter turned the collar up on his leather jacket, a desperate attempt to ward off the rain.

The yellow-slickered figure, much tiner than he'd believed originally, rushed up to him. "Mr. Helmsley!" Called a soft, feminine voice, tinged delicately with a southern accent, "Talent entrance is thataway; through the concessionaire's entrance." He actualized the identity of the woman as she bent to pet Lucy's head, "Aww! Aren't you a sweet thang; I have a bulldog of my own at home."

Hunter smirked to himself, "Well, I'll be damned; you're Sherri Martel."

"And you're Hunter Hearst Helmsly," She laughed, giving an apparently very happy Lucy one more pat to the head as she rose to her feet, "At least neither of us has an identity crises commin' on..." She pulled the hood back down over her head.

"Yeah, but shouldn't you be inside or something?" He jumped as a streak of lightening lit up the sky.

"Local 412 is striking for benefits. Terry only had enough money left to hire security to work the front of the building." She blotted at her mascara, "You're lucky you aren't parking with the fans tonight; we had to do that when we worked Tuscaloosa. And these are for you," She handed him a laminated press pass, "You have to pay five dollars for every one you lose." Her head snapped up as a car with Georgia license plates came crashing through a barricade. She seemed to recognize the occupant, "For fuck's sake, James, the barrier's orange and five feet wide! USE it!" She stormed off, shouting at an abashed Jesse James for making her life harder.

Hunter watched for a brief moment as the angry veteran reamed his old comrade out, then felt Lucy pulling him, insistently, into the old sales barn, where it at least appeared to be marginally warmer.

The Sporitorium. Steve Austin had made a start of things here. If Hunter played his cards right, it would become the place of his professional resurrection.

"Yer not in Kansas any more, Hunt," Jesse snapped, walking past him with his luggage trailing in disarray, "Welcome to the place where careers go to die."


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