Danse Macabre

She smirked around the stem of a maraschino cherry. I watched that poor, dumb thing gave its life up for her. What a pity.

Her lips leak cherry juice when she talks; cherry, the one thing she ain't, folks. And she pats his hand like he's her little baby.

My monster. MY monster. What has she done to him? He's holding her fucking purse!

He's mine; mine as though I raised him myself; I might as well, for all of the polish that hick town put on him. I could have forged him from the raw materials of anger and fury with my own two hands and not done any better.

And that little ex-slut of Triple H's just came and took him, like a thief in the night.

Do you really think that I actually WANTED to manage Big Show? That six-time loser?! Bischoff did fuck-all with him!

Brock's getting up...going to the mens room. I should follow him...use the word 'bygones'. I can't lose the power I had in him!

Wait a minute...the slut's cellophane is ringing.

"Hello?" Her eyes are bugging out..this might be more interesting... "I told you not to call me here! No..you know I can't promise that...Don't be that way..." The fuck? Is she back with Triple H? "I'll meet you in the park...Yes...OK, Eric. Bye."

Eric. She's fucking around on my Frankenstein with the biggest back stabber in the history of this business.

And I'm getting myself a front-row seat.


Go On