I Am Not Your Senorita

"She remains endearingly harebrained, keen to bewilder, reluctant to compromise, often hard to stomach, yet periodically magnificent. Just the way, it would seem, that nature intended."
-Q Magazine
Tom Doyle, January 1996

"Who is that girl again?" Mark Calloway asked, his brows momentarily sunken.
"Her name is Tori Amos." Said Vince McMahon firmly to the assembled group, "And she's going to turn the lot of you into virtuosos or die trying."
"Wow," Piped Adam Copeland, "The REAL Tori Amos?"
"Never heard of her." Dismissed Steve Austin petulantly, leaning back, "And why the hell do I want to learn to play the piano, anyway?"
Vince McMahon placed his copy of Rolling Stone on his desk, enervated by the questioning, "Because, after six years of being referred to as some kind of perverted piece of scum, I want to go out with some sort of respectability."
"You're dying, Vince?" Chris Jericho asked lazily, picking at one of his blond curls.
Vince's eyes narrowed, "No, I'm not dying. My ability to get decent public attention for this company, that's dying."
"Too bad. I was all set to play your funeral," Mick Foley cracked his knuckles and dramatically played air piano.
"I thought you were proud of being a sleaze merchant." Dwayne Johnson noted.
Vince frowned at his Superstars. "I never said I was a sleaze merchant! I said I was a provider of mature alternatives to..."
"Pornography?" Sean Waltman threw in from across the room.
Vince threw his hands up, "You guys..." He leaned back against the window frame. "It will only be for about two months. There are some crucial advertisers I need to get on board."
"And pull out to port?" Paul Levesque joked lamely.
"And I need to convince them that this is a classy establishment."
"It used to be." Mark joked.
"You sound like Hart," McMahon snapped, sitting behind his desk. "You're all on lunch break for the next fifteen minutes. Then report to the second floor for your first rehearsal. With any luck, she can teach you vocal, too."
A loud groan went up from the assembled wrestlers. Steve's voice raised an octave as he exclaimed "SING?! You want me to...sing?"
"You told that Rolling Stone reporter that you wanted to release a Country album." Vince's smile became mean. "If you came through on that promise, I might save some face."
"I was drunk!" Steve exclaimed, digging himself into a deeper hole.
"Have a good lunch, boys." Vince said, leaning back in his chair.
"Yes, Mr. McMahon." They chorused sarcastically.

Mark noticed how the group polarized when they reached the Titan cafeteria; He, Mick, Steve and Dwayne at one table; Adam, Chris, Sean, and Paul sat separately.
"Wight's a lucky bastard," Dwayne noted, "His fingers are too big for the keys. He gets to skip this crap."
"It's not crap," Mick noted, "I played piano as a kid. It ought to help me in some way."
Mark absently stirred his macaroni and cheese around on the plate. In mid-sentence, he realized that Steve was speaking to him, and he looked up.
"I said, Mark, that I don't know how you can eat that crap."
Mark shrugged, stirring it again, and taking a large, creamy bite, "I like cheese." He noted.
Mick then went for the obvious gass joke, and the guys laughed as they always did. But Mark felt a little dramatic that day. He had just returned from a weekend with his sons, and discussing it with his usual drinking buddies wasn't going to appease the ache in his brain.


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