McMahons Epic Fail

He sat there unblinking as he stared at his boss. The words that he was speaking not making sense as they sounded in the room.

"Well Gentlemen, that's the outline you'll find more information in your packets."

He looked down and fingered the large yellow envelope that held the godforsaken story line that Vince was handing down to him. With a grunt he looked back up and with pursed lips he questioned.

"Why me? Why this? Don't you think this is pushing things a bit. It's desecration of corpse..."

The older man waved his hand dismissively as he looked them over. "It's nothing, and really it's time we shook things up. And what's better than an angle that is shocking. And it's you two because there's no one else I can trust not to ruin it." He smiled at them both before patting their shoulders and leaving them along in the rented meetingroom; silence between them awkward and heavy.

Hunter was staring at the chair his father in law had vacated a few moments ago. He was torn between going after Vince and yell at him, or go back to bed and pretend this meeting never happened. He sighed. Of course he could do neither. McMahon was not god, but in the WWE, he was pretty close. If Vince wanted him to accuse a man of necrophilia then pretend to be that man and mock-fuck a corpse mannequin on national tv... then that's what he'd do.

With a grimace, he turned to Jacobs, and forced the words out of his throat.

"Wanna go over this thing now, see if we can salvage anything from it?"

"I don't see anything to salvage."

The words were forced and his voice sounded more like he'd swallowed a shovel full of gravel. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; fingers finding their way into his hair and tugging hard, hoping that the physical pain would be enough to keep the mental pain of the situation.

Sure he was supposedly Undertakers 'demented' baby brother, but because one is demented doesn't mean that they go around stupping corpses for fun or even for release. With a sigh he let go of his hair and sat back up straight, looking at Hunter with dead eyes.

"So.....how in the world can we make this not so...disgusting?"

Hunter winced at the other man's obvious distress.

"I... don't know."

He swallowed, not liking the awkward pause, and busied himself by taking out the papers from the envelope and skimming over the storyline. After a few minutes, he facepalmed.

"Glenn..."

He stopped. At this point there was nothing to say. It was obvious that whatever they did, they wouldn't be able to get around the "fucking a corpse" part.

Hunter angrily put the file back in the envelope, and got up.

"I've got whiskey in my room. ...You're welcome to join me if you want."

Those words didn't bode well. Hunter wasn't one to indulge in Whiskey all that often and when he made the suggestion it was suffice to say that it was more than likely needed to the highest degree. With a nod he snatched his envelope up from the table and fought the urge to toss in the trash can as he walked past.

He followed Hunter back to his room, feeling completely numb as he took up a seat in one of the wooden chairs that accompanied the tiny table that each hotel room always seemed to have. What he had done to deserve this type of story line he had no idea but Glenn was sure that from now on he was going to fly so far under McMahons radar that not even creative would know if he was employed or not.

As Hunter busied himself getting the liquid courage and two glasses he tore open his packet, scowling as he pulled the stapled sheets of paper out; a photoshoot mesh up of him and Hunter gracing the front with only two words printed under it. 'Katie Vick' Dread curled in his stomach; giving the thing a name made it that more real.

Hunter poured whiskey generously in the two glasses he'd found in the little cabinet. His mind, usually racing when given new material to work with in the ring, seemed to be failing him. No matter how many times he replayed Vince's words in his head, he couldn't find a way around the necrophilia part. Accusing the other man of murder, he could do. With Kane's psychotic history, to have a heel douchebag say that wasn't too far fetched. But accusing him of rape? And rape post mortem? On national television?

Hunter sighed, shaking his head as he sat in the chair next to Kane's, and mutely handed a glass to the seven footer, taking a sip himself, feeling mildly disappointed that the liquid that burned his throat didn't bring any sort of relief to his current situation.

He glanced at the photoshoot mesh up and snorted.

"At least the guy who did the photomanip knows his stuff. Vince should give him a raise."

And he took a longer gulp.

The words said so blandly made Kane laugh and he couldn't stop the bubbling hysteria that sprang forth.

"A raise? Hell he should give him all of Creative as he's surely the only competent peon he employs."

Sullenly he picks up his script and reads through it again, wincing and every once in a while takes a healthy gulp of his drink; the normally burning liquid not doing anything to take away the sour taste in his mouth. It was horrific, demeaning and completely utterly something that wasn't too much of a stretch that his demented alter ego would do.

"I want Vince McMahons head on a spike." He grumbled as he finished his drink and pushed himself to feet and started pacing. "What the hell is going through that thick skull of his? Does he really think that the people are going to want to see this shit on tv?"

Anger started to boil in the pit of his stomach and he growled frustratedly as he planted his fist in the first thing he seen. Which unfortunately was the wall; the hard strike of his fist leaving a spidery-webby crack in the dry wall.