Kiss Me

"....Smoosh. It's gotta be a smoosh."
"What are you talking about, Pat? A smoosh? We'll never get Jarrett over with a smoosh..."
"Hey, you asked for my opinion Vince.... Don't ask for it unless you want it."
"Mr. McMahon, you simply need to give us more time to come up with something...I mean, Debbie's all well and good, but Jarrett's pissing and moaning that we won't be able to get him over when she breaks off to do her own thing."
"Russo, don't call me Mr. McMahon...and I've tried everything with Jarrett I can, except for morphing him into Austin. Tell him to wait like the rest of the midcarders...."

My ear perked with annoyance at the conversation taking place in front of me, mostly because the people having it were nearly shouting. Case files and a variety of "verified" prescriptions from personal doctors spread out before me on the Doubletree Hotel's conference room table. My laptop buzzed in wait. On my lap sat a can of caffeine-free cola. I tried not to spill while tapping my right foot in irritation. Pat Patterson, Vince Russo, Terry Taylor and my Uncle Vince McMahon sat at the opposite end of the table, animatedly arguing over the finish for the Jeff Jarrett/Val Venis match they had booked for tonight's Raw. It was roughly an hour away from the front doors being opened at the arena across the street, and all the finishes had been settled except for this one. Uncle Vince was practically main-lining coffee by now; rubbing his forehead in agitation. I know better than to offer him some aspirin, having long ago drawn the line between being a niece and nurse. Vince Russo, the head TV writer and a complete moron in my opinion, stared at the script and, with a Sharpie, made a huge X through a page of dialog.
"What the hell are you doing?" Terry Taylor cried passionately.
"There's no way Helmsley can say this with a straight face. He'll choke to death on his own spit laughing."
Jerry Brisco picked up the script and squinted at the small print, blind without his glasses "What's wrong with 'Nobody messes with DX, Godfather! I'll tear you the f-...'"
"Can't say Fuck before ten now. The USA people threatened to cut us off at 11 if we even try that."
"Oh, so we can show Austin's fingers but..."
"What about bleeping?"
"Guys, Since when is he feuding with The Godfather?"
"Uh....Oh, Shit. It's a typo."
"Who typed it up and distributed it?"
"No one! I've been handing out handwritten notes to the guys and...." Our colleges gave Vince Russo a dispassionate look, "It's my secretaries' fault!" He blurted
"Do you want my opinion?" I asked, tired of the whole conversation.
It stopped and everyone glanced at me. "Isobel?"
"I think you should just switch the angles. Put Venis and Helmsley together, and have Godfather and Jarrett together."
"Problem. How are we going to further our storylines with those matches?" Russo! I gritted my teeth.
"Venis and Helmsley can have a brief argument over Nicole Bass. Seems she was sleeping with Helmsley, too. If you're going to predispose that he's involved with Chyna, Nicole looks like Joanie, and is therefore HHH's type. You can drag out Gunn and Shamrock, too. It'll be a cluster, but then the whole feud is that way, already." I shot a mocking glance at Russo. "As for Godfather and Jarrett, besides it already having been done before and having a minor history, you can do a whole Debra confrontation and maybe a brawl with the," I hesitated, "ho's."
Realization dawned on the faces of my compadres and uncle. They simply exchanged weary glances with each other.
"You can always pretend it never happened next week. They're all killing the ratings anyway."
Jerry, Uncle Vince, Pat, Terry Taylor and Russo looked at each other and shrugged. It seemed to me, on the surface, that they felt it was better than nothing.
"I'll go talk to the guys."
"I'll rewrite the angles."
"I'm firing my secretary. Anybody want to watch?"
"I need a burger. Want anything, boss?"
"No thank you." My Uncle answered briefly.
Everyone but my Uncle Vince left the room at this point. I sat, my hands still filled with files, a bit shocked that I had opened my mouth and booked two matches before even thinking about it.
"How did you do that?"
"What?" I asked, shuffling papers crisply to keep from laughing at the tone in my uncle's voice.
"Book the body of two matches in five minutes."
I hadn't thought of the impact I just created on 15-20 minutes of the highest-rated cable television show in the land.
"I don't know," I confessed, "I just did."


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