Disclaimer: WWE owns all characters in this ridiculous story. Onions owns nothing, except for a beat up guitar and a dream.
A/N: Review, bitches, review! And remember – a sense of humor is more precious than all the diamonds in the world.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, announcing to the vast world around him that he was King of this land, Ruler of the desert, Beauty of the beasts. Triple H puffed out his chest, immediately identifying with that lonely animal he heard baying in the sand beyond the Ball Shack's gravel parking lot. The Ball Shack was a regular stop on the WWE tour circuit – it was a hole in the wall bar right off the main thoroughfare of Highway 66, and it was full of cheap beer, friendly locals and big, burly truckers the Divas could dance with. Triple H was sneaking a cigarette behind an 18-wheeler that conveniently hid him from the watchful eyes of his wife Stephanie. If she knew he was smoking again, she would kick him right in the balls. Ironic, really, that he was in danger of getting his nutsack kicked in outside of a joint called the Ball Shack. He laughed out loud, instantly impressed with how witty and pithy he was. "Triple H, King of the Jungle!" he violently hissed into the cold night air. The wind carried his words to the waiting wolf and it howled again. Animal had become…animal. Beast had become…beast. And all was good in the land of whores.
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Jeff clawed at his butt, trying to conceal the fact that he was standing in the middle of the Ball Shack with a huge freaking wedgie stuck in his crack. He needed to get to Walmart at some point to buy new underwear, but the damn tour schedule was too hectic right now. He barely found time to brush his teeth these days, much less shop for things like undies and clean socks. If Beth knew the current state of his dirty laundry, she would throw a hissie fit. Beth didn't ask much of him, but she demanded clean socks, with no holes. And his worn out socks stunk to high heaven right about now. Rotten socks, though, was the last thing on Jeff's mind. He was wrought with agony over the recent developments with his brother Matt. Now that Matt had basically disowned him, Jeff felt like he had lost a limb, perhaps a toe or an ear. "Damn you, motherfucker!!!" Jeff screamed to no one in particular. He was half yelling at Matt and half yelling at the insistent wedgie that wouldn't let go of his drooping buttcrack. He felt so bad for his father, the Legend Claude G, having to choose between his only sons. Claude G was definitely on Jeff's side – he and his father had a bond through music that Matt could never even hope to attain – and had already banned the older Hardy brother from the annual Cameron Fish Fry picnic the Legend held every year in his grassless back yard. Dirt and fish were Cameron, North Carolina's calling card. Jeff smiled just thinking about it. "Dirt and fish, dirt and fish…" he softly hummed an impromptu tune, thinking he could make that into a pretty decent song. "Dirt and fish, la la la…" he sang, slightly off key, with his head cocked to one side and his hand down the back of his parachute pants trying to, of all things, fish his wedgie out of his crack.
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Maria was eyeing Matt Hardy from across the room. He was looking good, and she was sick of dancing with that old trucker, Bubba Lee Banks. Maybe she'd go ask Matty for a spin. And who knows where a little dancin' might lead. She smiled at the thought of swaying cheek to cheek to the lilting tune of Unchained Melody with none other than Matthew Moore Hardy. He was dreamy, now that he had gotten his clown-hair under control. She remembered being a bit scared to bring it up to him at the Madison Square Garden show a few weeks back, but she buckled down and confronted him about it. He almost winced under her words. She recalled calling him "Brillo head…meat puffer...sock helmet." Oh lord, what had she been thinking! But it had apparently done the trick. He went to Sally Beauty Supply the very next morning and bought virtually every product on the shelves. They had a blast trying out the different gels and creams back at the hotel that day. They tried everything from oily goops to powdery mousses. It was interesting to her that the product that worked the best on Matt's hair was something called EbonyDreamCream™. The girl at Sally's had looked at Matt kind of strangely when he put that one down on the counter, but he didn't care. He was sky high with the thought of taming that mound of frizz on top of his head, and he would have purchased anything, even Zoo Poo™ (a special hi-grade shampoo for zoo animals) or Hole in One™ (hair grease made from the insides of old golf balls), if he thought it would work. Maria brought herself back to the present, standing at the far end of the Ball Shack's mighty bar, staring at Matt Hardy, a bit of crusty drool on her chin.
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