A/N: Okay, so here we are again. Onions and I finally managed to finish the next chapter of this collaboration. Sorry it took so long to get it out, but there were drawings to complete, and other things to deal with along the way. Just a note: the Big Show drawing is a tiny bit messed up. It was creased in the scanner. But, c'est la vie.

Anyway, thanks to all of you who reviewed! Slashdlite, thanks for reading, as always. You'll find out this chapter if your guesses were right. :) InsanityPrevails, thanks! This is what happens when Onions and I get bored… Hardy-Hennigan-Hickenbottom, much obliged! :) Seraphalexiel, yeah, we do our best to torture the photographer in this one. :) ROFL, gentleMAN's magazine, Legacy piss… You are too much. Baybie, glad we could bring a bit of maniacal laughter into your day. Thanks for reading! :)

As always, the WWE owns all (except for Jeff Hardy who, as we all know, is now owned by TNA). Onions and I own nothing. (Seriously, Vince, we're both pretty destitute, so trying to sue us would be utterly useless, and a waste of time on your part.)

Morning passed into afternoon at the arena, and mongoloid after mongoloid continued to soil Sven's set. The Swedish photographer was growing more and more agitated by the second, and Katerina, the editor, was beginning to openly drink from a bottle of Jack Daniels in the back corner of the catering hall.

It would have been an understatement to say that things were not going well.

It was into this tense environment that the oblivious Chris Jericho walked, in full, Fozzy rock band regalia. He wore black leather pants that were so tight it looked like he had four balls, and his platform boots looked like something off the clearance rack at a Halloween costume store. He donned a full shiny cape, and long, blonde hair extensions that hung down to his waist. The extensions obviously hadn't been put in by anyone who knew what they were doing- they hung in weird angles off of his head, were far too thin, and gave the disturbing impression that he was part of Dog the Bounty Hunter's sad, mulletted posse.

Jericho Z-snapped and gave the half-drunk editor a cocky grin, pausing for just a moment so she could take in the goods. She turned away from him and took another long, hard swig from the bottle.

The blonde man-beast swaggered onto the set. He didn't really care if he got the GQ cover or not; career-wise, it meant nothing to him. But those smelly a-holes out in the hallway were hanging all their hopes on it. It annoyed him, working in such close proximity to failure. The stink of desperation offended his tender nostrils. He would reclaim those nostrils. It was why he was here, and why he'd dressed to impress.

He would take the GQ cover from these pathetic retards, without even really trying.

Sven stared at the cape-wearing man before him. What was it with the capes today? Was it a wrestling thing? He sighed, wanting only to get this over with.

Jericho got into position. He put one foot in front of the other, and brought both arms up. His middle and ring fingers were folded down, allowing the pointer and pinky to stick straight up in the air. He was flashing his love for heavy metal at the camera.

Sven wondered why for a half a second, before realizing that he didn't care. He continued to shoot, giving no direction, knowing that none of the shots would be useable anyway. He snuck a couple shots of the superstar's leather-clad package, for his rapidly-growing "personal file". At least something good would come out of this.

In the back corner of the room, Katerina quietly vomited into a garbage can.

(Note from the Esteemed Authors: Wanna see Jericho and his stupid cape? Check out BreakingFable's profile page!)

* * * * * * *

The Big Show lumbered towards the set, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, trying his best to ignore the muttering, wide-eyed woman sitting hunched over in the corner. He stopped suddenly and stared, taking a good look at her ashen face. Wasn't that the editor of GQ?

"What in the shaved taint of Perseus happened to her?", he grumbled, plodding onward towards his destiny. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Not today. Too much was at stake.

It had just been a matter of a simple makeover.

Jericho had helped him pick out his outfit, which was simple, yet refined. He wore his black wrestling spandex as a shirt. If it was good enough for the ring, he figured, it was good enough for GQ. He wasn't worried about the camera picking up the yellow armpit stains. Gray dress pants that had been sewn together from three pairs of average-sized suit pants, covered his expansive bottom and legs, and his vast waist was adorned by a belt with a giant, sparkly buckle. A tiny, black top hat covered the crown of his huge, shiny head.

He was the picture of clownish refinement.

Sven didn't even know what to say, so he just gestured in the general area where he wanted the big man to go. The photographer took three rapid shots, and put his camera down. Big Show stared at him in confusion. "Thank you", he said frostily, "That'll be all."


"Out!", retorted Sven angrily.

"Asshole", rumbled Big Show.

He farted big on his way out.

(From Your Literary Harbingers: Wanna see Big Show's idiotic belt? Wanna see what his spandex top would look like with suit pants? Then head over to BreakingFable's profile and click the link!)

* * * * * * *

Sven needed a break. He looked around for Katerina to let her know he was taking off for a few minutes to clear his head. "Where is that dyke bitch?" he muttered to himself as he headed towards the exit on the far side of the room. He couldn't find her because she was passed out in a puddle of her own pee underneath the clothing rack.

"Oh well," he thought. He needed a break and was going to take a fucking break.

He headed out into the hallway, the same hallway that was serving as the wrestlers' "green room".

"Holy mother of Christ!" Sven said as he rushed to cover his nose and mouth with his hand. A pungent waft of crushed animal ass and shit pits assaulted his nose, with the raging force of a Bon Jovi blaze of glory. "Oh dear Jesus," he mumbled to himself. "These fuckers stink like a gaggle of geese rolled in piss!"

Sven decided then and there that his break was over and ran back to the safety of the photoshoot. No amount of fat, ugly wrestlers in ill-fitting capes and spandex could be worse than the stink of that hallway.

"Next, please!" he shouted. Sven shivered as his soul quietly wept.

* * * * * * *

John Morrison sauntered into the room, fully aware that he was flaming hot. He was up all night practicing his poses for the shoot, employing all of the sassy techniques from his previous profession. Not many people knew that he used to be a featured dancer at Monkey's Paradise, an upscale strip club in the heart of Detroit. His stage name was Juan Carlo de Montegro and he wore jockey shorts made of young lamb's wool. He smiled at the memories.

He was wearing the same shorts today, actually. The wool had yellowed a bit and smelled of moth balls and hamburgers, but while shopping at Kmart yesterday, he found the perfect accompaniment – a pair of yellow, fuzzy Ugg boots. And they had been on sale!

He finished off his winning look with a black tuxedo bowtie, wrapping it around his slender neck like a ribbon on a present for the world. Luckily, the world couldn't tell he had to glue the bowtie onto his skin because the clasp had fallen off.

Sven could almost not bare to look up at his next subject. His heart simply couldn't take much more.

The photographer raised his head slowly, bracing for hell. But, what was this? A man, a glowing man with diamond abs appeared before him. A glowing man with diamond abs and a lambs wool diaper stood there, posing as if he had been born to do so.

Sven pinched himself to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep or died.

"Why, hello!" the Swedish queen greeted, a bit too enthusiastically. The horrors of the day washed away as he consoled himself with the knowledge that his personal collection would be greatly enhanced by the end of this shoot.

The tanned man in the fuzzy diaper didn't say a word. He only posed, and posed, and posed.

And Sven was happy once again.

(A Note From Those Who Are Writing This Story: We know you wanna see Morrison's fine ass! So head on over to BreakingFable's profile page, and click on the link! You can't miss him. ;) )

* * * * * * *

Sven knew heaven wouldn't last long.

CM Punk stood under the lights, arms crossed, greasy hair hanging over the heavy, dark bags of his eyes.

"So man," he said in a grim tone. "You straight-edge?"

Sven didn't know quite how to respond. "What the fuck is 'straight-edge'?" he thought to himself.

"Umm…sure. Yah," he answered, hoping the hairy beast in front of him would be satisfied and continue in silence.

"Oh, cool man," Punk said in a congratulatory manner. "I'm King of the straight-edgers. I'm neat."

Sven didn't reply, pretending to be engrossed in his work. His eyes were focused on the wet, matted hair on his subject's legs and the large "STRAIGHT EDGE" tattoo on his doughy stomach.

The unpleasant wrestler was wearing a neon pink string bikini bottom, and he had painted a giant X on his body, that ran from his shoulders to below his knees. It was quite a sight. Sven marveled at how he got the paint to stick to his sweaty skin and body hair. If pigs had human brothers, this would be one of them.

Sven couldn't wait to get back to the hotel tonight to wash away the sins of the day. He would vomit until the images became one with the toilet.

(From Us, To You: We're not sure why you'd ever wanna see Punk in a string bikini, but if you wanna brave it, come on over to BreakingFable's profile page and click that link!)

* * * * * * *

Sven sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, glaring at the door. He wasn't sure, but he thought all the sweaty fart machines outside in the hall had finally left.

Sighing, he got to his feet, walking towards his equipment. He let his bloodshot, weary eyes roam the sizeable room, surveying the damage that had been done throughout the course of the day. Over half of his crew had left, leaving him without lighting and technical people.

He didn't blame them at all.

As he began to sort through the pictures on his digital camera, he winced. There was nothing here. None of these pigs deserved the cover. If she were conscious, Katerina would agree.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, causing the Swedish man to jump and glare at the offending portal.

"Ya?", he yelled, his tone a bit more manic than he would have liked.

A young man poked his head into the room, looking around with hesitant eyes.

"Well?", Sven said, "What is it?" His voice was nearly an octave higher than usual, and his taint was soaked with the sweat of a thousand hells.

"Um, hi", said the younger man, stepping into the room and glancing around, "Sorry I'm late, but I wasn't actually signed up for this. McMahon called me about an hour ago and told me to come over and take a few shots with you, so here I am. Name's Jeff Hardy."

Sven looked appreciatively at Jeff Hardy. His pleasantly slim build had been stuffed into baggy jeans and a tight wife-beater. He had a strange, ripped-up stocking on one of his arms. His long hair hung to his shoulders, and was dyed a multitude of colors.

Sven shook his head. He was attired like a common pimp, or a filthy street-rat. Oh, well. He'd seen far worse go through this room today.

"Stand over there, pose, and I'll shoot you", Sven sighed mournfully.

"Whatever", Jeff said, shrugging. He stood under the lighting array.

Sven began taking pictures of the younger man. The photographer found that he was pleasantly surprised as the shoot went on. There were no retarded poses. No idiotic outfits to speak of. No fat rolls, or butter-feet. There was just a good-looking wrestler, who took really good pictures.

Sven immediately perked up when he saw the results he was getting from Jeff.

The young Hardy stood with his hands in his pockets, staring off to the side, into the corner of the room. Katerina had passed out there an hour ago.

"Um, isn't that the editor?", Jeff asked.

"Yah, whatever", Sven replied dismissively, "She's fine. Can I get you down on all fours, by any chance? It'll be really artsy. It'll up your chances of getting the cover, too." The photographer grinned lasciviously.

Jeff looked at him incredulously. "Um- Gotta go, man."

"Oh, come on. You don't mind staying a little longer, yes? Take a few more shots for poor Sven?" The Swedish photographer sounded desperate.

"Sorry, man", Jeff said firmly, "But it's time for me to take my afternoon dump. And when we Hardys feel the call of nature we must answer without delay, or pay heavy consequences."

Sven watched Jeff's tiny ass sway back and forth as he walked away. He felt drool wetting his chin, and swiped it away with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, things were looking up for this cover.

Humming "Footloose" to himself, the Swedish man moved to rouse his unconscious crew members, who were scattered about the room in a drunken conglomeration. He kicked ball sacs and flicked eyelids, all to the beat of the happy pop-dance tune. "Wake up, bitch tits!", he cried in his piercing, nasal voice. In one shadowy corner of the room, Katerina rolled over, peed again, and fell back to sleep.

Sven grinned happily. He had a vision. They would make Jeff Hardy into a GQ cover model. They would dye his hair, put him in a suit. Teach him how to pose.

The grin faded as he thought about Jeff's awkward mannerisms, the way he'd shoved his hands into the pockets of his overlarge jeans as he posed. That wouldn't fly at all, not for the cover of the most prestigious men's magazine in all the world.

Sven sighed, and rubbed at his forehead in an effort to stave off a rapidly-growing headache.

They had an awful lot of work to do.

* * * * * * *

Jerry the King Lawler pranced up to Gladys, Vince McMahon's secretary. The beet-red announcer smiled broadly at the elderly woman, who sat behind her scrupulously organized desk with the posture of a giraffe with palsy.

"May I help you?", she asked, her voice quivering like the cellulite on Mickie James' ass.

"Hey there, sweetheart, is Vinnie Mac in?", greeted King. A fart slipped out of his bumcrack, silent but deadly. "I wanna show him my new t-shirt idea." He lovingly pawed at the bright purple, bedazzled shirt that he was currently donning.

Gladys glanced briefly at the merchandise, reading the words "The King Will Crown Your BumHole!" emblazoned across the front. She would never understand these wrestlers.

"I'm afraid Mr. McMahon is in a meeting right now", she replied, "He's unavailable. You'll have to try back later."

"Oh", King's face fell, "Okay. Guess I'll be back, then." He walked away, disappointed.

Gladys watched him go, her cold eyes never leaving his bright purple back. Mr. McMahon had asked not to be disturbed today. She'd ensure that his orders were carried out.

Inside the dark office, Vince sat, staring up at his flat-screen TV with wide eyes. He hugged himself as if he were cold. The chairman rocked, back and forth, back and forth.

Too much stress. Too much.

Vince was watching Barney, the Purple Dinosaur. "I love you, you love me." He cried every time that fat purple fuck began singing his signature song.

The chairman of the WWE was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office, watching cartoons, as he always did when the stress became too much. He'd pulled out his special birthday-boy party hat this time. It had a picture of Spongebob on it, and streamers coming out of the top.

"I love you", Vince muttered in his rough voice, "You love me. We're a happy family…"

Tears began to slide down McMahon's cheek.

Tears of pain. Tears of joy.

And tears of steroid overdoses.

What will Jeff do when he finds out he's the winner? How will Matt react to the news? What about the other wrestlers? Will McMahon recover from his Barney-induced funk? And what about poor Sven and Katerina? Will they ever be the same after this? Keep reading to find out the answers to these questions, and more!

Pictures of the photoshoot can be found on BreakingFable's profile page.

Review! Review! Review! :)