They said to write everything I knew. It would help them figure out my case. To help figure out who did this to me.
Well, there were so many facts about myself, I couldn't pick just one. So I wrote down the first thing that was an absolute fact.
I am John Morrison, and trying to find someone better looking than me is like trying to find Bigfoot.
I guess you could call me cocky. I generally only use that term when I'm trying to bag the ladies. But John Morrison doesn't have to say anything else other than, "I'm John Morrison." in order to do that.
I guess I have a story to tell, so I should probably stop talking about my greatness. But if I did that, there wouldn't be a story, so I guess you're all just going to have to suffer through it.
Does John Morrison care if you suffer? No. You won't suffer nearly as much as I have.
Just like all stories, this one started off after a show. Well, kind of. I had just successfully defended my sexiness against an unfortunate looking man - Yes, Tommy Dreamer, I am talking about you - and I was hoping to get back to the hotel to soak my sexy bones with a nice hot shower, preferably with a gorgeous woman.
That was not the case.
As I left the arena, I could feel every female eye catching the sight of me in normal clothes, appreciating every rippling step my legs carried me with. Fan girls cried and pleaded on the other side of the security fence, asking me to pity them, just this once, and sign something.
I stopped walking and turned to them, the bright light above them shielded by my sexy - and expensive - sunglasses. "You want me to sign something," I said flatly.
They all screamed.
I gave them a half-smile, walked over, and took their notebooks. They all waited in anticipation, wanting a signature from the Shaman of Sexy.
I threw them over my head as I walked away, listening to the papers smack against the wet ground, and back to the rental car that wasn't nearly as sexy as I wanted it to be.
I could hear them calling, screaming my name. I was used to it - ladies generally did that, on several different occasions.
The noises disappeared as I rounded the corner, behind one of the back buildings. I could see my car parked at the far end, next to Matt Hardy's. He was already in it, on his cell phone, driving away with one hand. I could see his brother in the front seat.
Two ugly brothers in one ugly car. That should've been against the law. If John Morrison was the Police Chief of whatever low-brow town I was in, the streets would be paved with sexiness, women would be allowed to walk around with no clothes on, and people would kill to be an apprentice at the Palace of Wisdom.
But since I didn't have the time, or the patience, I unlocked my trunk and threw my bag into it, hoping that I could find a lovely lady on my way back to the hotel. It wouldn't be hard - women came to, on, underneath, and with John Morrison like it was their national service to this country.
President Morrison always sounded pretty sexy to me.
I couldn't help but whistle as I made my way to the driver's side, twisting the key in the lock.
That's when something knocked into the back of my head.
And everything went black.
A/N: How do you like it? I wanted to write a Dark Fic for a while, I just couldn't decide who to use... Well, John Morrison has been digging deep into my heart lately, so I figured he was the perfect candidate. Review if you please.