"JILL," her bank teller ID card reads. The body it hangs on, the face the picture represents… as milquetoast as the name. Her personality is fascinating, but her fashion sense would humble a Quaker, and her speech impediment repels potential suitors with all the immediacy of a small child.

"Ca-ca-ca…ca-caca-can I h-help you?"

Through thick glasses lenses, Jill peers inquisitively at a red-haired man with a beard, dressed in a black jacket, shirt, and jeans. He grins down at her.

"Yes," the man affirms, his voice slightly raspy and soft, "I’d like to make a withdrawal, please."

"Do y-y-you…ha-ha-haaa...ha-have your ac-ca-count number?" she asks, fingers typing on a keyboard as she brings up the computer prompt.

"Oh, right," the man says, a slightly embarrassed smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

His hand fumbles around in his pocket for a moment, and he stares at Jill apologetically. "Sorry. I’ve just got to…sorry."

"No pro-pro-pro…pa…"

But this time it isn’t Jill’s stutter that causes her words to drop off. The man pulls his hand out of his pocket, a black cloth gripped in his hand.

"What is…," the man starts, his voice confused, but then quickly he slides it down over his head. His other hand comes into view, fingers wrapped around a 9mm pistol now leveled at Jill’s head. "ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY DOWN! THIS IS A ROBBERY!"

The security guard standing in the front starts, his eyes growing wide and his moustache flaring in outrage as he begins clawing his pistol from its holster.

"Stop. Get down!" a voice says forcefully, and the guard turns to see another man, very close by, now masked and pointing a gun at him.

He obliges. Weeping, Jill begins trying to explain to her customer-turned-captor. "Ple-ple-ple-please…they d-d-d-d…dooo…"

"What the fuck are you saying, bitch?!" the man at the counter shouts, poking the weapon further into Jill’s face. She gives a whelp, and the man slams his hand down. "Give us the money! NOW!"

Jill quivers in fear, and turning, her right hand knocks over her pencil mug. She sobs uncontrollably, but attempts to inform the uninvited guests of her predicament. "They d-d-don’t g-g-ga-give me the paaa…the paaaaa…ssss…wa-wa-wa…"

It is at this very moment that the sounds of a toilet flushing echo out of the opening door to the men’s bathroom, and a second security steps out unknowingly into this scene of terror. He stiffens up immediately, and his reflexes atone for the sins of his older, fatter co-worker. He draws his pistol and aims it at the robber standing in front of Jill.

"Don’t move! Don’t move! Drop your weapon!"

The man at the counter continues to point the gun threateningly at Jill (as though there were a non-threatening way…hmm…). The right-hand man stares at the new arrival nervously. "There’s another one? I thought there was only one…"

"I thought so too, now shut the fuck up," the leader hisses, his eyes still shifting between the security guard’s gun and Jill’s panic button, although he’s sure she’s already pressed it.

The men stand at an impasse, and somewhere in the distance, sirens perk up. The right-hand man’s eyes follow the sound, his breaths coming heavy. The guard on the ground notices this lapse in concentration, and his hand begins moving slowly towards his still-holstered weapon.

Not slowly enough.

The right-hand man notices. Blood and bone paint the walls of the corner as he unloads a bullet into the top of the security guard’s head. The horror at this act has but a moment to register in the mind of the right-hand man before the other guard-"AAHHHHH!!!"-turns and fires off two shots at his colleague’s seeming murderer. The first strikes a painting on the wall next to the target, glass shattering, and the second punches into the right-hand man’s shoulder. He falls back against the wall.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The leader moves his pistol from Jill to the guard and fires thrice. Three hits to the chest, and the guard stumbles back through an advertising cut-out and hits the marble floor with a squeak. The sirens are very loud now.

"Ahhhh…ahhhhhhh! Help!" the right-hand man cries from across the room, "Derek, help, I’ve been shot!"

Derek (as his accomplice revealed) stares intently down at Jill for a moment, his eyes growing large as the full weight of the situation bears down on him. He breaks the gaze to spare the right-hand man an unsympathetic glance before turning and bolting out the door.

"WAIT!! Ahhhh…wait for me, man!"

Jill watches Derek throw open the door and run out. She slides out of her chair onto the ground, and clutches the sides of her head as she weeps.

Michigan Stadium Food Court, Ann Arbor, Michigan– 10:30 PM

Fuck the WWEx superstars. Fuck them, and fuck their mother with a vomit-crusted Rebar shaft.

Broken end-first.

…

God, this is so fucking embarrassing.

Grunting, O’Haire finally cranes his neck far enough to rest his chin on the countertop of the cheesesteak stand. Sweat pours down his face. He glares at the girl behind the register. "Don’t trouble yourself, really!"

It doesn’t appear to register with her, and after more grunting (probably a little louder than absolutely necessary, in a last-ditch effort for sympathy), O’Haire pushes and wriggles himself into a standing position…hands still glued securely inside his back pockets, courtesy of the WWEx roster member cursed in the italicized section above.

"I…whew…I need some help," O’Haire manages, panting from the effort (sad, huh?), "Do you…do you have any cooking oil?"

"No!" the girl chirps, a huge smile frozen across her intellectually vacant face, "at Phillin’ Good, we cook eeeeeverything in pure, 100% unadulterated lard! The steaks, the fries, the shakes, the pies…" Her voice trails off for a moment, and then, as though someone hit the reset button to her brain…"Welcome to Phillin’ Good! May I help you?"

"YOU’RE ALL AUTOMATONS!!" O’Haireshouts at the assembled crew of high-school kids manning the stand. He stumbles away from the counter, and turns to face them, defiant in his humiliation. "So this is how it is, huh?! So…so…SO SAY GOODNIGHT TO THE GUY WITH HIS HANDS GLUED TO HIS ASS! LAST TIME YOU GONNA SEE A GUY WITH HIS HANDS GLUED TO HIS ASS LIKE THIS!"

Just as he completes hands-down the worst Tony Montana impression this side of actually it’s the worst ever, the sounds of an arena security go-cart and a conversation in progress can be heard:

"Man, craziest night ever."

"Yeah. Craziest night ever."

"Who was that guy who tried to steal these fuckin’ umbrellas?"

"How many are back there, anyway?"

"Must be twenty or better. What about that mask? Dude was wearing a fucked-up mask. What did he say?"

"He said…uh…he said, ‘When it rains I’ll sell these at twice the market value…fucknuts!’ That’s what he said!"

"That guy…"

"That guy…"

O’Haire focuses intently, his interest piqued by the conversation. His mind had only begun to grasp what the shit was going on when the cart zooms by. Naturally, as you’ve surely predicted by my not-so-subtle buildup to this physical humor bit, one of the rescued umbrellas poking away from the cart snags one of Sean’s arms-"HOOOOOO!!"-and yanks him off of his feet. He’s dragged pathetically down the corridor of the food court, while nicely-dressed, successful-looking guys with girlfriends leap out of the way in disgust, holding their food safely aloft.

"I CAN SEE THE GLASS DOOR UP AHEAD, AND I’M ASKING THAT YOU NOT-AWWWW!!! AW, THERE’S GLASS IN MY NOSE! (+10 for avoiding obvious meth joke)"

O’Haire rolls through the door and down the main entrance steps onto the sidewalk. He coughs loudly and begins to reach for a cigarette when he realizes his glued-hand situation has not been resolved. Unable to conjure a solution, and jonesing like the balls, Sean seeks assistance. He scrambles to his feet and approaches a woman walking into the store. "Ma’am?"

She stops, obviously apprehensive. To the untrained eye, Sean is an unwashed, hollowed-out mass of faux-psychedelic refuse. To the trained eye, O’Haire is a lovable, unwashed, hollowed-out mass of faux-psychedelic refuse. Sean assuages her fears: "No, it’s okay, I just really need a favor. Could you reach into my pocket and grab my HARROOOOMPH."

Although O’Haire’s testicles are so callused from years of this kind of abuse that shots to the pills go down like water, he still hits the deck out of instinct and curls into a mourning ball. Or as much of a mourning ball as his predicament will allow.

Nut-shots hurt that much worse when you can’t cup them afterwards.

O’Haire’s Mind - in the Puddin’ of Timelessness

Abyss.

Ted DiBiase.

I’m gonna get down to brass tacks here, Thorn. Let’s lay it out statistically, my man.

I expertly lead almost-was Ozric Mortimer in a flouncing, I tell you, a flouncing of Fuhrhrhrhr and my once-friend-now-very-pwned enemy Big Poppa. Majorwas overheard in the shower room waxing poetic about my in-ring versatility and command of the crowd, and natural exuberance, and some good stuff about Mortimon too, or something.

mother-fuckers, and your boy is back on the fast track after I yawn my way to a second IC Title victory, thankfully alleviating the burden of completely ignoring the belt from Benjamin’s very capable shoulders. Oh.

…

There’s a certain amount of levity to all of this, Abyss. You’ve held the pride for a year, and that’s a ridiculous feat. But just to take you down one last peg before I go…I wouldn’t be too quick to pull the O’Haire name-drop when rattling off conquests. The only thing you’ve got to brag about there is maybe being one of the first people ever to retain a title by being repeatedly kicked in the face.

You should be thanking me now, DiBise. By manhandling you in the ring at No Way Out, I’ll be shattering the glass ceiling that’s kept you down for a year…the thought of a US Title. Then you’ll be free to become the real failure you were always meant to be!

NEXT TIME, ON "THE PERPETUITY OF INTENSITY":

WHAT OF THE BANK ROBBERS?!

O’Haire STARES DEATH IN THE FACE AND IT’S, LIKE, TOTALLY A BAD TRIP!

------*~*~*------ The Sleepy Dude Hotel, Ann Arbor, Michigan, – 2:00 PM

WHOOMP, WHOOMP, WHOOMP!!

O’Haire’s eyes shoot open, and the first thing he feels is cold, stern indignation. There was definitely a reason he took all the time last night to program his alarm clock to wake him up at ten o’clock with Dire Straits’ "Walk of Life"…so that the vivacious and rump-shakingly up-beat tune would gently yet firmly lift him out of bed and imbue him with the resolve to tackle his day and make the most out of it.

Cut to Sean O’Haire dancing around a random hotel room in a pair of tighty-whities, pumping his arms up and down in the jogging motion as the morning sun peaks through the window.

"Da-nuh-NUH-NUH! Da-nuh-NUH-nuh-nuh-NUH-NUH! Da-nuh-NUH-NUH! Da-nuh-NUH-nuh-nuh-NUH-NUH! Da-nuh-NUH-nuhnuhnuhnuh..."

But this is not the sound of the Knopfler Bros. happily jamming away. No, no, no, friends…this sounds more like someone installing microwave ovens…custom kitchen deliveries, even. Sounds like someone moving refrigerators…someone moving colour TVs…with urgency.

WHOOMP, WHOOMP, WHOOMP!!

"Mr. O‘Haire! MR. O‘HAIRE! Please open the door!"

Sean growls and rolls his legs out of bed, sitting up and resting his head in his hands. He groans, and reaches one arm out to feel around the bedside table for a pack of cigarettes. He grabs them, and a lighter, and hoists himself up with a grunt, stumble-walking over to the door, unbolting it, and wrenching it open quickly.

"What. The Fuck. Dood." Snake Pliskin would admire how forcefully the words escape through O’Haire’s gritted teeth.

For his part, the young man at the door, hand still hanging in the air clenched into a knocking motion, appears petrified. Understandable, as O’Haire is only an average-sized man if you think about it in wrestling terms. To the layman, he’s 6’6" and 260 lbs. of monster. At this particular moment, his hair is shooting out from his head in every different direction, and his woolly beard appears to resemble a tiny afro for the bottom half of his head. The eyes of the Greatest Wrestler Alive narrow dangerously as they focus in on this unwanted intrusion.

The young man gulps cartoonishly and steels his resolve. "S-sir…check-out time was…was at eleven."

"And?" O’Haire replies, cocking an eyebrow at the youngster as he lights a cigarette, "I set my alarm for ten. I should be good."

"Sir, it’s two in the afternoon," the young man replies, getting braver.

Sean takes a moment to let this sink in. Could have set his alarm for ten at night? Could he have really self-sabotaged his Dire Straits wake-up ritual?

No fucking way, man.

"I call bullshit…Milton," O’Haire says as he peers down at the young man’s name-tag.

"No bullshit, sir," Milton replies, "it’s two."

This guy is a pro, O’Haire thinks to himself as he takes a drag, perhaps I underestimated him. "Well, Milton, if it really is two-thirty, why didn’t "Walk of Life" rock the walls of my hotel room this morning like I programmed it to?"

Field THAT one, Ichiro.

"You must have made a mistake, sir," Milton answers plainly.

Checkmate. Damn.

O’Haire sighs loudly, scratching the back of his head. "Alright, Milton. When I’m out-played, I freely admit it. But how about that complimentary bowl of Cocoa Krispies I was hearing about? Can I at least mack on one of those before I blow this joint?"

"No, sir," Milton replies with a sympathetic look on his face…the kind of "Don’t pound me" sympathy.

"That hurts…," Sean grumbles to himself before staring Milton defiantly in the face, mustering his pride. "Fair enough. I’ll be going, then. You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Milton, but I love you for it."

O’Haire leans forward and embraces Milton in a tight hug. His arms at his sides, Milton can only stare away in horror (you know the look: the ‘Going to My Happy Place’ look). O’Haire releases him, and Milton straightens his glasses before backing away and running down the hall. Sean walks back into his room and kicks at a pile of clothes irritably.

"Fuck."

Now he has to get some Cocoa Krispies. He thought about it when he went to bed last night, thought about it even as Milton’s incessant knocking woke him up this morning. He won’t be able to officially start today (what day is it? Monday? No…) until he’s got some in front of his face, milk teasingly crackling the choco-rice shit.

Oh, man, w3rd.

Outside the Stop N’ Go, Ann Arbor, Michigan, – 2:40 PM

"Mmmm…mmmmmmm…oh, man. OH, MAN."

O’Haire walks down the street, oblivious to all around him as he concentrates on the most important connection in his life…the one between the spoon, the travel box of Cocoa Krispies, and his mouth. He unknowingly barely avoids the edge of a speed limit sign and steps in front of a lady pushing a stroller.

"Oh, my God, dude," Sean moans to no one in particular as he walks, bags slung over one shoulder, "dude. Dude! So fucking good."

A shrill scream interrupts the Rising Star’s taste-gasm, and his head jerks up. Down the street, a man sprints out of a National City Bank, a pistol clenched in his hand. O’Haire’s bags and cereal hit the ground, and he tenses up. Police sirens (Sean hadn’t noticed them before, obviously) squeal loudly, and a patrol car shoots onto the street from a side road up past the bank. The bank robber (some of you might remember him as Derek. The rest of you…Jesus, I even linked you at the top of this one) holds out his pistol and fires several shots at his pursuers. Amazingly, one of them hits the windshield of the patrol car, and it comes to a screeching stop. Derek runs over to a car parked nearby and scrambles inside. The engine roars to life.

"AHHHH!!!" A woman screams and dives out of the way as Derek pulls a U-turn and shoots off down the street headed towards where O’Haire is standing.

For a fleeting moment, O’Haire seriously considers attempting to dive onto the vehicle…or something. But then reality checks in and he recognizes that life isn’t like the movies that way. Diving in front of this car could be suicide. Definitely career suicide.

Newspaper sheets fly up in Sean’s face from the ground as the car roars by. As O’Haire attempts to yank them all off, he hears horns blaring and then….

KKKKKSSSSSSSHHHHHHHUUUNKK!!!

…the collision of metal, shattering of glass, squealing of tires…and then nothing. Silence. O’Haire claws the paper out of his face, and stares up in horror as he sees the bank robber’s car…twisted around another car that it hit on the driver’s side, both in the middle of an intersection. The traffic light changes uselessly above them.

O’Haire sprints over to the mess. The door to the robber’s car, hangs open, and as Sean stares up the adjacent street, the gun-toting man limps away, turning down the first alley he sees as more police sirens get nearer. O’Haire’s gaze turns to the other car.

"Unnnggh…"

The sound of a woman moaning (the Rising Star knows it all-too…sorry, this is actually a serious moment) grabs O’Haire’s attention, and he runs around to the driver’s side. The offending car had apparently clipped the front left side of the car, miraculously sparing the driver’s life. Her form is obscured by an inflated airbag.

"Hang on!" Sean yanks open the door and feels for the woman’s shoulder. He takes her by the arm and helps slide her out of the car, supporting her weight. Aside from a few scratches on her face, the woman appears to be fine, if a little disoriented. Suddenly her eyes grow wide and she grips O’Haire’s shirt.

"MY BABY!! Where’s my baby?!"

O’Haire gently guides her to the side of the car, where she can lean, and then sprints around to the passenger side. In the front, an airbag is inflated. Sean quickly checks the back…but there’s nothing there.

Oh, God. Where the fuck is this lady’s baby?!

His eyes dart around, and then to the front seat again, where he notices with horror that part of a car-seat is poking out from under the airbag. He opens the front door and tries to feel for the car-seat.

This baby must be suffocating!

Changing tactics, O’Haire pulls his set of keys out of his pockets and grips the longest one like a knife. He hits the airbag with it, but it doesn’t cut. "COME ON!" He hits it again. POOOOP!!

Sean bears down on the bag as the air rushes, and as it sags away, O’Haire’s heart drops down into his bowels as his stomach jumps up into his throat. The baby, appearing to be a girl, is strapped into the car-seat, but her head lolls at an awkward angle against her chest. Most horrifically, her eyes are open and a cry is frozen on her lips. Sean stumbles backwards, landing on his ass in the street, his eyes still locked on the baby girl.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! AHHHH-AAGGGHH!!!"

Sean looks up blankly as the mother stands next to him, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. Her shrill screams continue and her body begins to shake as she runs over to the open door and falls to her knees.

"MY BABY!! MY BABY!!"

O’Haire can only stare in white shock as the baby’s head hangs, unresponsive to the cries of her mother. Above the heads of the shattered family, an orange warning label on the flip-down visor begs viewers DO NOT CARRY CAR-SEATS IN THE PASSENGER SIDE FRONT. AIR-BAG DEPLOYMENT MAY CAUSE SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH TO INFANTS AND YOUNG CHILDREN.

"NNNOOOOOO!! PLEASE!! MY BAAAABBYY!!!"

------*~*~*------

The Tired Traveler Bed & Breakfast, Cleveland, Ohio, – 10:30 PM

O’Haire sits at the desk in his room. The desk-lamp provides the only light in the room at this time, light that catches cigarette smoke wafting up to the ceiling.

Luckily, Sean was able to transfer his flight to leave today instead in a few like he had originally planned in order to see some old friends in the Ann Arbor area. After what happened this morning, he just wanted to get the fuck out of Michigan.

In the hand that isn’t holding a cigarette, O’Haire grips a small framed picture. That little girl looked about as old as Lulu. The picture of his daughter shows her asleep in a crib in the house in Detroit that O’Haire’s ex-wife Ariel now maintains sole ownership of. The only part of her life I had anything to do with, O’Haire thinks bitterly to himself, but she’s alive. She’s alive, and that woman’s daughter is dead.

O’Haire’s chest is gripped in a sudden panic attack as he thinks of his only progeny, and his hand hovers over the phone on the desk. After a moment, he clenches it into a fist and sets his arm down on the tabletop.

Sean wants to call the house. He wants to hear his daughter’s voice and know she’s okay. He wants to hear his wife’s voice, asking him to come home. But the gulf between them that’s grown so wide paralyzes him. O’Haire is literally intimidated by the thought of calling Ariel and talking to her, despite the fact that no one single incident drove them further apart…only time. He can’t.

He can’t. But that isn’t the sad thing. The sad thing is that in an odd, old house in suburban Detroit, Ariel Martiarra is practically waiting by the phone.

O’Haire wipes a tear out of his eye and flips up his laptop, hoping the sheer absurdity of the internet will take his mind off today. He’s automatically signed on AIM, and instantly a message pops up…

Accept Message from wiseasscomment

Yes or No

Huh? O’Haire cocks an eyebrow, one of my adoring fans? HOT PICS!

He clicks ‘Yes.’

wiseasscomment: THIS IS THE ILLUSTRIOUS MOTHER FUCKIN TED DIBIASE BITCHFIST. I FOUND UR SN AND IMA GONNA FUCK UR WHOLE WORLD UP. MY CONNECTIONS BETTER THAN URS BTW. I CAN TELL ALREADY, MY SHITS GOTTEN ALL SLUGGISH. FUCK U.

wiseasscomment’s warning level has increased to 10%.

wiseasscomment: OHHHHHH U FUCKIN COWARDLY COCKSMOOCH. IM GONNA MUSHROOM STAMP UR HIPPIE BEARDED SHITSTACK OF A FACE WITH MY DEMONWANG AND SKEWER UR WHOLE FAMILY ON IT LIKE ONE LONG SHISHKABOB OF FUCKIN UGLY. LOL!!!

wiseasscomment’s warning level has increased to 20%.

wiseasscomment: I COULD DO THAT SHIT 2 IF I WANTED FAGGOT. UR GONNA RUN OUT OF WARNINGS AND THEN ITS GOODBYE YELLOW FUCKING BRICK ROAD 4 UR KNOBSLOBBING ASS.

wiseasscomment’s warning level has increased to 30%.

wiseasscomment: AND THATS ALL SHE WROTE, FUCKNUTS. IM SITTING ON THE WORLD TITLE BAREASSED RIGHT NOW AND MY NUTSTEAM IS FOGGING UP UR NAMEPLATE.

wiseasscomment’s warning level cannot be increased.

wiseasscomment: SHOOTING BLANKS NOW ARENT U RICHARD CRENNA? YEAH GO FUCK URSELF WITH THE DILDO I STOLE FROM UR MOTHERS ROOM. WAIT WAIT. U DONT HAVE ONE. OMG MY B FAG LMAO.

O‘HaireWWEX: I have connections.

wiseasscomment’s warning level has increased to 40%.

wiseasscomment: WTF WTF WTF!! WHO THE FUCK IS AYATOLAHRUMNCOLA?!Q!

O’Haire grins, the glow of the laptop cast over his face. Just like that, his worst enemy in the world had made his day.

------*~*~*------

The Same Place, – 3:41 PM

O’Haire sits at his desk, smoking a cigarette. Bandages cover parts of his face where the Ted DiBiase struck with his goddamn microphone the night before, like he needed one.

One-upping him again. Really getting to him. Shaking off the attack, and going on it instead. The perma-stoned gears in O’Haire’s head turn, but nothing comes.

Ring, ring, ring…

Surprised, Sean picks up the phone. "Hello?"

"Sean? Mr. O‘Haire?" comes a female voice on the other end.

"Yes?"

"This is Susan Stern with the Advocate," the voice replies, "the gay, lesbian and bi-sexual rights magazine?"

"I know about the Advocate," O’Haire says, putting out his cigarette. "How may I help you?"

"We’d like to talk to you as soon as possible…," Susan answers, "would you be interested?"

Oh, you crazy perma-stoned gears. You’re turning now, aren’t you? Yes, you are.

"Yeah," O’Haire replies, grinning, "yeah, I definitely would be."

------*~*~*------

This week WWEx, you’re going to be the first victims to the newest victims to grace my wrath, of dominance.

You’ve done nothing but brag about yourself. You’ve done nothing but angered me.

I will not fail in destroying you. I cannot fail.

This Sunday…you’re wrestling careers as you know it…is over.