A/N: Wrote this before the PPV, so the PPV in this is The Bash. I don't remember what I was listening to.

No one understood him.

He didn't just want it. He didn't just want it in his hands, over his shoulder, around his waist. He didn't just want his eyes closed against it, his lips pressed against it, his breath blown against it.

He didn't just want it.

He needed it.

Nothing else mattered. If Edge didn't have that belt, the world might as well end. How ironic it was when he lost the WWE Championship at Armageddon.

The WWE Championship was nothing compared to the World Heavyweight Championship.

The belt molded for his waist. The belt molded for his shoulder.

The belt in Punk's hands.

"Hey, Edge—whoa," Chris Jericho stopped short, hand on the doorknob to the dark locker room. He squinted at the figure staring at the wall. "Edge. That you?"

The figure nodded once, barely moving.

"Edge. Edge, you okay?" Jericho propped the door open with his bag and moved toward him. "Edge, what are you doing?"


Chris turned to where he was looking, frowning at the Sharpie scrawled across the normally white wall. "On the wall? Vince is going to kill you."

"I need to know why," he gritted, and leaned forward the cross off one of the bullets.

Chris stared at his friend. "Why what?"

"Why he has it and I don't." Edge leaned back and tapped his lip with one finger, scrawling something quickly. "It just doesn't add up."

More awesome than me? WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG!




Loved by little teen girls? ....

"I think you've got something going there," Jericho said quietly.

"What?" Edge turned to look at him, a week's worth of scruff on his face. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic. "What? What do I have?"

"The last one." Chris tapped it softly. "He's popular."

"I'm popular. People like me."

Chris blinked at him.

Edge scratched his jaw. "So what do I do? How do I make him not popular?"

The lights flipped on, sending the entire room into brightness. Edge blinked a few times and turned toward the doorway, already sneering at whoever was standing there.

Jeff was chewing gum like a cow, smacking it loudly as he stared at the two Canadians, one side of his iPod headphones in his free hand. "What's goin' on?"

Chris looked at Edge discreetly, giving him a half smile. "You put him up against someone who puts John Cena to shame."

Jeff frowned. "What're ya talkin' about, Jericho?"

"Nothing, he's talking about nothing." Edge grabbed Chris's suit jacket. "Come on. We need to find Teddy."

Okay, so he wasn't in the match. In fact, he wasn't in the Pay-Per-View at all.

But he was holding it together. The entire place would come down if it weren't for him.

Punk was going to lose it all. His fans, his respect, and most importantly, the belt. Sure, he would drop it to Jeff Hardy. Sure, Jeff Hardy would get something he didn't deserve.

But Edge would get his belt. He was sure of it.

The easiest way to get back on top was to take out the weak ones first.

A/N: Ah, yes. Review.