Author's Notes
***
"Dude, what the fuck is this?" Randy looked up at Mark, puzzled.
"A game," Mark’s eyes glittered. Randy eyed him suspiciously. Mark’s idea of games sometimes went a bit far.
"I seem to remember the last game we played, the cops showed up," Randy caught Mark’s smirk before returning to the paper he held in his hands. It held a single line of Mark’s handwriting.
"That just meant that I won, that’s all! This one is different. It’s almost like a scavenger hunt." Mark pointed to the piece of paper. "That’s your first clue. You find that, and there will be a piece of paper telling you where to find the next clue. There are six clues in all."
Randy read the paper for the tenth time. "'A Stone Cold brace?'"
Mark just smiled. "So, are you in?"
Randy smirked. It was just something Mark would want to do. They were backstage at RAW, the show was still going on in fact, and he wanted to play a game.
"What do I get if I win?" Randy asked, stalling for time.
"You’ll find that out at the end," said Mark triumphantly.
Randy laughed. "How long have you been setting this shit up?"
"I planned it last night while you were asleep. So will you play?"
Randy glanced at his watch. "Dude, I still have a match tonight, you know." He stood in his wrestling gear, consisting of boots, kneepads, and trunks, along with his Evolution tee shirt.
Mark shook his head sadly. "Well, if it’s too much for you to handle, I guess you don’t have to play. It is a pretty complicated game..."
Randy gritted his teeth. He knew Mark’s taunts were bullshit, and that he only used them to get Randy to do his bidding. Yet somehow, he could never turn down one of his challenges.
"Fuck you, fine, I’ll play."
Mark laughed. "Great! Happy hunting, I gotta go get ready." And with a burst of the energy that always seemed to infuse him, Mark was gone.
Randy just shook his head and laughed. "Crazy fucker. I love ya, buddy."
He read the first clue, yet again. He checked the time. Still plenty of it left. Still shaking his head, Randy went off in search of Austin.
~~~
"You fuckers, you're fucking telling me this fucking thing won't fucking run?"
"Gee, Steve," drawled Randy sarcastically as he walked up. "You think you could have said "fuck" any more times?"
"Fuck you, you fucking fuck," Steve growled in return. He was clearly in a bad mood, although with Steve, most of the time it was hard to tell.
"What's wrong?" Randy looked curiously at the stage hands scurrying around Stone Cold's four-wheeler.
"The fucking thing isn't working, and I need it in about ten minutes," Steve glowered at Randy. "Now what do you want?"
Randy coughed, not sure how to bring up the subject.
"DAMN it!" Steve dug angrily at his leg, his fingers scratching beneath one of the braces he always wore. "Spit it out, boy, and then leave me the fuck alone!"
"Well," Randy coughed again. "It's about your leg brace..."
"Yeah, it fucking itches, what the fuck about it?"
Randy blinked, and then he smiled.
Steve rolled his eyes. "I am going to drop your ass if you don't wipe that stupid fucking grin off your face and tell me what the fuck your problem is."
"I think I might know why it itches," Randy said, attempting to be placating. "I think if you take it off, you'll find a piece of paper, maybe stuck to the tape...?"
It was Steve's turn to blink. He bent slightly and quickly unbuckled the brace, prying loose the tape holding it more firmly together. Sure enough, hidden inside the straps, was a small crumpled piece of notebook paper.
"What the fuck?" Steve glanced at the paper and glared at Randy. "How the fuck did you..."
"What does it say?" Randy cut him off, not in a hurry to explain his and Mark's latest game. Steve straightened out the piece of paper, and Randy swiftly read the single line over Steve's shoulder.
"Thanks Steve, you're the best!" Randy called as he hurried off deeper into the backstage area.
Steve watched him go, bewildered. He looked back at the piece of paper. "'Fake plant?' What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
However, he immediately forgot the entire incident with the roar of the four-wheeler's engine. With a relieved whoop, he let the paper fall to the floor, and climbed aboard to go out and face the crowd.
~~~
Eric Bischoff jumped as Randy slammed open the door to his makeshift "office."
"Jesus, Randy, what is it? We're about to film here," Eric fixed him a stern look while the makeup girl made a few last-minute touch-ups to his hair.
"Won't take a minute, Eric, I, uh, left something in here." Randy immediately went to the plastic plant sitting quietly in the corner of the room and began rummaging around in the leaves.
Eric shot him a look as the crew adjusted the lighting. "You left something in here."
"Yeah."
"...in the plant."
"Yeah." Randy tipped the plant to look under the pot, the plastic branches waving crazily.
"Um, Mr. Bischoff," the camera man looked distrustfully at the wildly flailing false foliage. "We need to get started in just a minute..."
"Ah HA!" Randy shouted. His shaking of the plant had jolted something loose from the branches; a small white ball of paper shot out and rolled across the floor. Randy let the plant fall back, not noticing when the pot caught itself on the wall, remaining slightly tipped. He chased down the ball, scooped it up, and jogged toward the door.
"You have a match next, you know!" Eric shouted at his retreating back. Randy waved over his shoulder and shut the door. Eric shook his head in disgust. "Freaks, I'm surrounded by freaks... okay, let's film this damn thing."
Randy stretched hurriedly just inside the curtain. He could hear Eric's promo on the big screen outside. He glanced at the paper he was holding as Eric's smarmy voice droned away in the background. It had two words written upon it: Stage left. Randy rolled up the paper and threw it away, sighing. He'd have a chance to look as he came out, if he planned it correctly. Suddenly, in the midst of the droning, there came a loud squeak. Randy ignored it, practicing a nonchalant search of the stage and mentally prepping himself for his match. He barely heard the roaring laughter of the crowd as they watched the fake plant in the corner of Eric's office topple over, causing the GM of RAW to leap a foot in the air in the middle of his speech.
~~~
There was a loud chorus of boos as Randy stepped onto the main stage, his smirk firmly in place. Instead of striding right down the ramp to the ring as per usual, he walked to the left side of the stage, flexing his muscles and taunting the crowd. As the abuse rained down on him, Randy's eyes swept the stage. At last he spotted it, a piece of paper tucked into the structure supporting the big screen.
"Fuckin' fire hazard," he gritted out between the teeth of his sneering grin. He sauntered down the aisle, thankful his entrance didn't require pyro.
Ten minutes later, he was sauntering up again, victorious. The same grin was on his face, though now he was sweaty and slightly winded. As the lights dimmed for the commercial break, he stepped swiftly to the side of the stage and retrieved the piece of paper. He squinted at it as he exited into the back.
"'Good Ol' JR?'" He read aloud disbelievingly. "Oh, for Christ's sake..."
He peeked out from behind the curtain. He still had a few minutes before the show would resume. Quickly, he hurried over to where Jim Ross and "The King" Jerry Lawler were sitting. He snatched the hat from JR's head, who responded by letting out a not-so-manly shriek.
"Randy, what the hell are you doin', son?" His thick drawl was startled. Randy quickly searched the hat. Nothing.
"Have you seen a piece of paper around here?" Randy asked, putting the hat back on JR's head. The two commentators looked down at their desk, strewn with paper.
"No," said the King.
"Fuck you guys, it's small and white and maybe crumpled up?"
The King began to snicker to himself, and Randy, not in the mood for high school-level jokes, dropped to the floor. He peered under JR's chair. Still nothing. With a sigh, Randy pulled himself to his feet. He checked around the table for a moment, and then froze. He looked down at JR, who along with his colleague was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.
"He wouldn't," he said, immediately knowing that yes, he would.
"Who wouldn't what?" asked the bewildered King.
"JR, stand up," Randy said firmly.
"Why?" The Oklahoman looked at Randy suspiciously.
Randy rolled his eyes, taking on an expression of one who has suffered long and greatly. "Just do it, before I pull you up."
JR rose, and Randy immediately inspected the seat of his chair. STILL nothing. "What the fu-" Randy began. Then he froze again as he realized his first idea was correct. It had just gone horribly, horribly wrong. He slapped his palm against his face.
"Mmmph mawwumph," he said.
"Care to repeat that?" JR asked acidly.
Randy removed his hand from his face. "Turn around."
JR turned to face the crowd and then Randy saw it. The tape that had held the paper to the seat of the chair was now holding it firmly to JR's ass. And if Randy knew Mark, the tape had probably been placed sticky-side-up anyway.
Randy looked pleadingly at the King. "Would you?"
"Oh no," King replied, shaking his head. "That is all you, my friend."
"What the HELL are you two idiots talking about?" JR snapped, finally losing patience.
Randy took a deep breath. "Might as well get it over with," he muttered to no one in particular. He reached out and quickly ripped the paper free. Not wanting to discuss the matter any further, in fact wishing to forget it entirely, he immediately he took off for the backstage area.
The King gave a leering grin as JR sat back down. "You like that, did you?"
JR glared at his broadcast partner. The crowd roared as the cameras came back on the air.
"We ought to do another drug test soon, that boy ain't right," he muttered.
~~~
Randy knew the moment he read the clue that he'd have to wait until after the show to go after the next one. "Seat 12, Row J, Section 215" was all it said. Randy scanned an arena map he'd found on the wall. Up in the cheap seats, but it still wouldn't be a good idea to go there now and be swarmed with fans. Instead, he took a shower and put on his street clothes. When he stepped back into the main hall, Mark was waiting for him.
"Did you find them all yet?" He asked brightly.
"You and your stupid fucking games," Randy said, shoving him only half playfully. "I've been everywhere trying to find these damn clues. I had to touch JR's ASS, I'm going to have nightmares for WEEKS..."
Mark threw back his head and laughed. Randy glared.
"It's not funny!" he insisted. "I'm scarred for life! I'll probably never get it up again."
"I doubt that," Mark smirked. "Not after you find the last clue..."
"Oh?" Randy cocked his head to the side. "And why is that, oh beloved one?"
"No hints, this is supposed to be a surprise!" Mark warned. "And you have to find the rest on your own, I'm not helping you."
"Fine," Randy huffed.
"I have to go; I'll meet you after you find the last one. Oh, that reminds me, Eric was looking for you," Mark said, hurrying away. "Something about a plant..."
"Fucker!" Randy called after his retreating back.
~~~
The arena, sans crowd, was nevertheless noisy with the sounds of the ring being dismantled, and the staff sweeping the aisles clean of popcorn, beer cups, and discarded signs. A few sweepers nearby gave Randy the occasional odd look as he muttered to himself amongst the seats.
"...E, F, G, H, I, J," he said under his breath. "Okay, let's hope some asshole hasn't ripped it off..." He hurried down the aisle until he came to the seat with a small plaque bearing the number twelve. Randy leaned onto one knee and examined the chair. Stuffed into the joint where the leg of the chair met the folding seat was a piece of paper. Randy tore it free and read the final clue.
"SHIT!" Randy said. With a bound he cleared the row of seats, took the stairs four at a time and ran through the empty concourse. He ran down the stairs of the lower bowl, cleared the railing, and knocked folding chairs out of his way as he came barreling toward the center of the arena floor.
"Wait!" Randy gasped, sliding to a halt next to a startled Mike Chioda. "Don't move the ring yet!"
"Randy, we're almost done," Mike told him, his eyebrows raised. Randy threw the paper with the clue written on it to the floor, and hurried to inspect the ring that was mostly in pieces. Mike bent, curious, and looked at the paper that Randy had thrown aside.
"'A circle that is square,'" Mike read. "What's that?"
"It's the ring, duh," Randy said testily. He examined the posts, the apron skirt, the mat, but nothing was out of the ordinary.
"Well, yeah, but..."
"It's a game me and Mark are playing," Randy admitted at last. "There should be something around the ring for me. Have any of you seen anything? A piece of paper, it could even be an object…"
"What about this?" Mike said. He pulled what appeared to be a small, square envelope from his back pocket. "We found it under the ring. I had my hands full with the ropes, so I just put it in my pocket and forgot about it..."
Randy snatched it from his hand. On the front of the envelope was "Good job!" scrawled in Mark's handwriting.
"That would be it," Randy said, smiling in smug satisfaction. One more of Mark's games, finished and won!
"Well?" Randy looked up to find Mark, who'd asked the question, looking at him.
"Well, what, bitch?" He asked calmly. He had a good relationship with Mike. The two traded insults often and laughed so hard together that the front office had decided that Mike wasn't allowed to referee Randy's matches anymore.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?" Mike crossed his arms. "Slut?"
"Sure," Randy shrugged. "Douche bag."
Mike snorted laughter as Randy opened the envelope. When he pulled out what was inside, though, both Randy and Mike's jaws dropped.
It was a Polaroid picture of Mark, sitting on a hotel bed. In fact, it was one of the beds in the room Mark and Randy were currently sharing.
Mark was wearing a wide grin and nothing else.
Written on the bottom of the picture was simply "I'm waiting."
"Damn," Mike breathed, and Randy came to his senses and quickly pressed the picture against his chest. "Why don't you two ever invite me up to your room?"
"Because we only invite guys with big dicks," Randy informed him. "So just forget whatever you have in mind."
"Not likely," Mike said, grinning. "Now move it, dumbfuck, we have a ring to take down and you have somewhere to be."
"Damn straight," Randy said, putting the picture in his pocket. "Or not, as the case may be. See ya later, Mike."
"Later, you lucky fucker," Mike waved.
~~~
With a burst, Randy threw open the hotel room door. He looked at Mark, who was sitting naked just like in the photo, with a bemused expression on his face.
"I," Randy declared, slamming the door behind him. "I have spent all evening looking for stupid pieces of paper that my stupid boyfriend hid all around the stupid arena."
"Okay," Mark said evenly.
"I had to get Austin to take off his brace."
"Okay."
"I ruined Eric's promo, and he chewed my ass out over it for about twenty minutes."
"Okay." Mark's lips were beginning to twitch a bit. He slid down until he was lying on his back.
"I had to touch JR's ass. The horror, the HORROR!" He shuddered. "All for you."
"Okay."
"All because," Randy said, stripping of his shirt and stepping out of his shoes. "My stupid boyfriend wanted sex." He pulled down his pants and boxers, removing his socks in the process. "And I don't know why, for the life of me," he said as he leaped onto the bed, "he didn't just ask."
Randy propped himself up on his hands above Mark, covering him with his body. Mark looked up at him calmly.
"Are you saying you didn't like my game?" Mark asked. He began to pout slightly. "After all the work I put into it?"
"You," Randy said, with the air of a judge pronouncing the most vile and cruel sentence, "are LAME."
"No, YOU are lame," Mark said. He examined his fingernails. "Actually, that's not quite true. The way you've fucked me lately is lame. The sex is lame."
Randy's jaw dropped for the second time that night. "Wh... what?"
"I was hoping the game might get you fired up." Mark looked up Randy. His face was calm but his eyes sparkled. "Cause frankly, I've been really bored with what you've had to offer lately..."
"Oh, you're asking for it..." As he'd already realized when dealing with Mark, no matter what the bullshit reason, Randy could never turn down one of his challenges. Randy grabbed the lube Mark had placed helpfully on the bedside table.
"Duh!" Mark gasped, as Randy slid a lubed finger between his cheeks. Randy replaced one digit with two as he fingered and stretched Mark, enjoying the way Mark moaned and arched his back beneath him. When Randy judged he was ready, or more accurately, when Mark groaned "put it in, you fucker" Randy kneeled between Mark's legs. He lubed his hard cock, gasping at the cool liquid, but shivering at the feel of it as he stroked. Randy slid into his lover evenly and began to thrust.
Maybe Mark has a point, Randy thought. Lately the two had been so worn out that their sex life consisted mostly of hand jobs. They could both use this, and true to his intention, Randy fucked him long and hard.
Mark laughed breathlessly as twenty minutes later, the headboard was still banging into the wall. "Someone's going to call the desk on us..."
"Doubt it," Randy changed his angle and grinned tightly. "Whoever's next to us is probably enjoying the show."
Mark wrinkled his nose. "Don't say that, I think it's the Dudleys..."
Randy laughed until Mark smacked his hip, urging him to get on with business.
At last Mark couldn't take it anymore. With a whole day of anticipation, and forty minutes of being pounded through the mattress, it wasn't surprising. Randy knew he was close, and quickened his thrusts. He reached between their bodies and pulled roughly against Mark's cock with his lube-slicked hand, urging him to let go. Mark cried out, spurting hot come into Randy's hand and onto his rock hard abs. Randy felt himself getting close, and grabbing Mark's hips, rolled them over so that Mark's strong frame sat on top of his own. The light of the room shone off the come dripping down Mark's body as he grinned down at his lover, eyes hazy with pleasure. He squeezed his muscles around Randy's cock.
"Mark!" Randy cried out. He arched off the bed as he came, giving the headboard one last good whack against the wall.
Mark fell lazily on top of Randy as his lover sank out of him. He swiped at the come drying on his skin and put his fingertips in Randy's mouth, shivering as he sucked them clean.
"Love you," Mark said simply. He beamed at Randy.
"Are you happy now?" Randy muttered, exhausted from his efforts.
"Oh yeah," Mark purred, resting his cheek against Randy's sweat-dampened chest. "I'll be walking funny tomorrow."
"Glad I could help," Randy yawned, reaching over to turn off the lights. As he did there was a knock at the door.
"Who could that be?" Mark asked, his voice drowsy already. "I put the Do Not Disturb thing on the door." Randy stroked Mark's hair.
"It's either someone from the hotel desk, one or both of the Dudleys, or Mike Chioda."
Mark looked up at him quizzically and Randy shook his head. "No, don't ask. And none of those people are worth getting up for, just ignore it."
Mark's eyes gleamed. "Maybe it's JR."
"See, that is wrong."
Mark laughed delightedly. "I'll be sure to make up another game soon."
"Okay." Randy sighed, resigned to his fate, and actually not minding it one bit. "Just do me a favor and let me get some sleep first..."
