==============
Kiss at Death
==============

"All the world's your ashtray;
I'm just your Marlboro.
Light me up and burn me,
You're sick and your beautiful."
- Artifical Joyclub (Sick and Beautiful)





	I think I'm a little shocked now, a little numb.  All the 
noise and lights around me seem really far away, and I know it 
must be cold because I'm shivering and a paramedic keeps 
pulling blankets around me, but I don't feel that either.  It's 
just all seems so meaningless compared to all that blood.

	Shawn Micheals is dead.  It's .. hard.  I can't think.

	Someone stabbed him and then left him bleeding in the middle of
his hotel room.  Hurt and broken and dying.  I got there too late and
I couldn't save him.  We were supposed to go club hopping.  We were
gonna hang like we did back in the old days when we were all buddies.
We were going to let all that crap that split us up *go*.

	But we made amends too late, 'cause he's dead now.  Or, actually 
- maybe we made amends just in time.  But shit, Shawn, buddy - you were
suppose to be ALIVE so we could enjoy it.

	I'm sitting in the back of an ambulance, I managed to talk them
into not taking me to the hospital, but they told me I had to sit here
anyway and wait for someone to get me a cab.  So I have to sit here and
watch as a black body bag carrying my good body Shawn is loaded into 
the back of another ambo and driven off.  I have to just sit here as
cameras flash off in my face and some reporter asks for an interview.

	Fucking vultures. 

	I'm about a flashbulb away from smacking Ms. Kimberly Kline from
KSRT News in Seattle when someone unexpected comes to my rescue.  He
doesn't yell, but he puts a hand on the camera and pushes down roughly
enough that the man almost drops it.  He doesn't say anything, just 
*glares*.  

	They, surprisingly, leave.  And he looks over at me.  The funny
thing is, he doesn't give me the 'sympathetic' look, or the 'I'm *so*
sorry' look.  He just...looks.

	"Hey."

	I nod, shiver some more, and stare blankly back.  I'm still 
numb, but the cold, I think, is getting to me.  He walks over and pulls
himself up next to me without a care in the world.  Rips the blanket
away and looks at my arms wrapped tightly around myself before letting
out a funny sounding sigh.

	He gives me his jacket like I was a chick or something and then 
takes a seat next to me, kinda close.  Sticks a cigarette in his mouth 
and offers me one which I decline.  The flame from his lighter is almost
warm.

	I expect him to start offering condolences, to tell me what a
tragedy it all is, to say *something*.  But he doesn't, he just smokes
and I'm left to wonder what the hell it is he's thinking.

	When his cigarette is nothing but a butt, he flicks it out to 
the pavement and stands.  Wipes his hands and looks around the insanity
of press, police and curious onlookers outside before coming back
around to me.

	"Need a lift?"

	I consider telling him to go fuck himself.  This is, after all,
the guy that screwed me out of the European title, only to throw it 
out the window a few weeks later.  We hardly like each other, and I 
don't want, or need, his sympathy or pity.

	But it *is* cold.  "Yeah."

	"Come on then."


 
	When I walked into Shawn's hotel room earlier tonight, I saw the
blood right away.  It was a large, round stain on the pinkish carpet,
and his hand lay curled out on top of it.   

	I think I knew right away what had happened, but I stood frozen,
panicked.  I called his name before running over to him and falling to
my knees beside him.  I remember the way my knees felt when they squished
in all that blood, I can still feel it...dry, caking...

	"Pull over."

	"What?"

	I'm going fucking throw-up, I grab the handle, swallow, "Pull the
FUCK over!"

	He does, the car swerves a little on the rain slicked roads, but
I'm out and hunched over and vomiting my lunch and my breakfast before 
we even fully stop.  God, all that blood.  That poor bastard, Shawn...
Jesus.

	I hear Shane come up behind me, and there's that hesitation again
before he pulls back my hair and puts a hand on my back.  It's not exactly
a friendly or helpful gesture, just one of those automatic things that
you do for someone who's getting sick on the side of the road.  He does it
almost professionally, and I gotta wonder how many sick wrestlers he's 
done it for in the past.  

	After a while, a really long while, I think I stop.  My insides
feel like they're on fire, my mouth has a bitter, disgusting taste in it,
but shit...I'm alive.  It hurts, but I'm alive.  Shawn's body flashes in 
my mind and I gotta remind myself one last time:  I'm alive.  Funny how
you tend to take that for granted until you see Death so up close and 
personal.  

	"You good?"
 
	I look up.  Shane.  Right.  "Just fucking peachy."

	"Then get the fuck back in the car, it's cold out here."  

	He's already inside before I fully straighten up and I stand 
for a moment.  Wondering why he's doing this, why he's even bothering.

	'Cause Shawn's dead.

	Shit.

	I get back in the fucking car.



 

 

	The Four Seasons Hotel looms into view and by then the silence    
between us is so thick that you can cut it with a knife.  I'm still 
waiting for him to tell me how *sorry* he is that Shawn was hacked up
and that I was the one that found him.  I'm still waiting to be 
comforted or some shit like that by fucking Shane McMahon.  But, he 
doesn't, and I don't want it.  Not really.

	The car pulls to a stop in front of the building, and Shane 
hands his keys off to a valet who smiles a little too cheerfully at 
the twenty slipped into his palm.  I get out of the car, follow him
numbly inside, and let him get the elevator.  I don't even bother to 
ask how he knows where I'm staying, what room - I guess it's a 
corporate thing, gotta keep us employees under tabs.  Fuck, God only 
knows we might rip off the towels or complimentary bath gels.

	Just for a moment, I feel like a jerk because I'm ripping on the
guy that's helping me.  Then I remember who it is and don't feel so
guilty.

	"I can take it from here." I stare at him as we get to my door,
but he acts like he doesn't even hear me.  He fucking *gropes* through
my pants to find the keycard and opens the door.  "Gee, Shane, you 
taking advantage of me?"

	Doesn't so much as twitch as he opens the door and gestures 
for me to go in first.  Bastard, he has to channel Stone Cold now?

	The hotel room is just like I left it, for some reason I thought
it'd look different.  And, just for a moment, I see Shawn again, I
see his blood.  And my knees go a little weak underneath me, and I have
to pull Shane's jacket closer because it's just so fucking *cold*.

	"You're in shock," he tells me, matter-of-fact voice in place.
He looks around the room and heads into the bathroom.  I hear the water
turn on and he comes back out with a cloud of steam, "Jump in, it'll 
warm you up."

	"I don't *need* a fucking shower."

	"Get in by yourself, or I *throw* you in."  I almost laugh at 
the idea that Shane-O thinks he can possibly make me do anything, but
the set look on his face makes me stop.  

	Instead I just snort, "You just want to see me naked."

	He gets an impatient look, "Sean, your skinny ass is the last
thing I want to see.  Get in there or I leave now."

	I want to tell him to leave, I want to tell him that I never
wanted him here to begin with, but fuck - who am I kidding?  If I'm
alone right now, I think I might just start screaming and never stop.

	'Cause Shawn's dead.  And oh man, it looked like it had hurt
so *much*.

	He takes his jacket back as I walk by him to take my damn
shower.





	Remember the shower scene from "Psycho"?  Well, I figure
everyone knows that scene, even people who haven't seen the damn movie.
Well, while I'm standing there, the cold slowly starting to go down the
drain with the water, I think about that.  I look down at the drain and
for a moment I see the water tinge with blood, Shawn's blood.  I gag
and look away.  Shit, I'm a fucking trauma case now.

	There are red stains on my knees from where the blood leaked
through.

	Sweat pants and t-shirt are waiting when I step out and I have
to wonder when Shane walked in to lay 'em out for me.  I hope he didn't 
hear me crying because I'm pretty sure I did a lot of that.  At least 
I'm not cold anymore.  It was one of those colds where I didn't think 
I'd ever be warm again.

	I walk out and smell more cigarette smoke, Shane's sitting on
the floor with his back up against the bed watching the news on mute.
Vince is on, talking to the press, looking appropriately Upset and
Concerned.  With maybe a touch of Confidence.  

	The media dicks are practically sucking on his neck.  Ms.
Kimberly Kline from KSRT Seattle News looks like she's about to wet 
herself.

	Shane's face is carefully blank, the only movement he makes is
the careful lift and carry of the cigarette in his hand.  He doesn't 
look up when I come to stand next to him and watch the silent television.
Doesn't protest when I hit the 'mute' button and sound fills the room.

	"...the police are investigating the matter and will be keeping
us updated.  Our deepest sympathies and condolences go out to the
Micheals' family and his friends.  He will be sorely missed.  He was a
wonderful man, a first-class athlete..."

	Vince McMahon's voice is sorrow and steel.  Rain on dessert and
I can't listen anymore so I have to turn the TV off completely and stare
at the flowery picture on the wall over the bed.  

	He doesn't say anything, just keeps on doing the Calm thing
and that's pissing me off because it's just so a Vince McMahon thing to 
do, and Shane is NOT his father.  I wonder if consoling angsty wrestlers
who just kneeled in their friend's blood was in the 'McMahon Family 
Handbook' on how to handle The Business.  'Cause if it is, I rather be 
consoled by Stephanie.	

	"Jesse and Billy are on the way over," Shane tells me.  I look
down at him and he gives me that same blank stare.  "I called 'em.  Don't
know where Hunter or Chyna are - I think maybe Fresno.  They had publicity
thing."  One last drag, and a puff of smoke, and Shane stubs out the butt
in the crystal ashtray next to him.  "I'll leave when they get here."

	"You don't have to leave."  Did I just say that?  Fuck.

	"Yeah, I do."  I'm about to argue it, but then I remember
Wrestlemania, Chyna's turn to the Corporation, Hunter's.  Feud after feud
after feud.  Some involving around Shawn himself.  Holy *shit*, that whole
fucking mess in the parking lot, Shawn's surgery...I can't believe I'd
almost forgotten about that.

	I go over to the mini-bar, take out a coke and throw one to 
Shane.  I sit for a moment, drinking, thinking, remembering.  Shane just
holds the can in his hand, rolls it back and forth.

	"This - we were suppose to be okay again.  We were gonna talk and
stuff was gonna be forgotten."  Shane looks up at me, we're both a little
surprised that I'm doing the 'opening up' thing.  He nods in understanding,
and for me to go on.  "He'd called me, told me that - that he was in town, 
and wanted to see all of us.  But mostly me because he knew that me, more 
then the other guys, would be willing to give him a second chance.  We 
were gonna go drinking, maybe pick up some fun."

	Shane seems to grimace, and a pained look comes to his eyes, the 
first sign of emotion I've seen on him tonight.  "Sean..."

	"I found him, in there.  Dying, but not dead.  He had...holes, all
over.  In his chest, on his arms and legs.  But the worst was on his
stomach, it wasn't a hole, it was a...slit."  I think I gag again, and I 
chug down the fizzy cold coke to choke it back.  "He couldn't talk, blood
just kept coming out, and I was holding him so *tight* because I was 
afraid if I let go, he'd die.  He died anyway."

	Why I'm opening up to him, I don't know.  I have no idea why I'm
telling him all this stuff, I know I won't repeat it when Jesse and Billy
get here, but I can't seem to stop.  Shane's listening to me too, really
listening.  I hope I don't give him my nightmares tonight, although I'll
doubt he'll sleep.

	For a moment, we're both quiet.  I don't want to cry, but I can
already feel the tears threatening to choke me.  I don't want to cry in
front of Shane, or anybody.  But it all just hurts so much, why...

	I feel his hand on my arm, and I'm tempted to lean into him, to 
rest my head against his shoulder.  But I don't because I'm just such a 
butch motherfucker.

	"They'll catch who did it."  I don't believe him, I can tell that
he doesn't believe him either.  

	"No they won't."  And there's no reply to that, because there's
nothing he can say that'll make it okay.

	I still can't believe Shawn's dead, I can't believe anyone could
murder him, like that.  Who could hate him so much?  Who would want to
bring him so much pain?  I don't understand, I can't -

	The hand on my arm squeezes and I look up into Shane's face to
see him regarding me with that same, detached look, but now there's 
something like concern there too.  He reaches out and brushes my cheek, 
and I can feel the wetness there.  I've been crying and I hadn't even 
noticed.  The tips of his fingers leave a trail on my skin, and I close my
eyes because I don't want to think about how nice it feels, how right.

	I feel guilty for feeling even remotely good now.

	"Shawn...I'll miss him."  Shane sighs, looks away, but he doesn't
break the touch, doesn't even seem to consider it as an option which makes
it feel *so good*.  "Such a waste."

	That last comment is a little odd, but the faraway look on Shane's
face, the confusion and hurt make me dismiss it.  Who am I to tell him how
to grieve?  And he's right, Shawn's death *was* a waste.  It shouldn't of
happened.  Not to him, not to the Showstoppa.	

	Shane's standing real close now, not moving, just offering his
comfort.  And right now, when everything seems to be so unreal around me,
he's steady, a rock.  I feel his calm, his cool, and I think it's like I 
can feed off it.  That if I just take a little bit of that into me, it'll 
all be all right again.

	So, I kiss him.  I tilt my head up, and touch his lips with mine,
and it *does* feel good.  It feels soft, and wet, and sweet, and I like it.
He doesn't move, his brow scrunches up a little as if he hadn't really 
expected it, and shit...what the fuck did I just do?

	Our lips part with a slight smack, and I wrench away from the hand
on my elbow, feel a shudder of utter mortification.  Oh fuck fuck fuck - 
what the HELL did I just do?!

	"Shit, Shane - I - shit." I back away, and I stumble a little from
trying to put some distance between us.  I can't look at him, I can't talk,
I can't explain why I did it.  Hell, do I even know?  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't
of done that, I - "

	My boss.  He's my fucking *boss*.  My enemy.  My -

	He closes the space between us, and his hand is on my shoulder
now, it moves up to the side of my neck, then up even more to cup my cheek.
The look on his face is...serene.  Controlled.  The man is a walking 
thermostat - hot and cold at will.  Right now, he is so fucking *hot*.  His
hand *burns* me.

	Now, he kisses me.  It's nice.  Very nice, and I close my eyes and
part my lips because I want more.

	We kiss again, and I hold him closer, let my hands touch his hips
then draw up underneath his shirt where his skin is smooth and silky and so
good to touch.  I hope I don't infect him with my misery.

	When he backs away and looks at me, his eyes are dark and deep and
I can see myself in them.  "Shawn..." he starts, "...was a great man.  And
so are you."

	I don't pretend to understand, just nod.  I want him to kiss me
again and he does.  But this time, his hands wander.  They hook onto the
waist band of my sweats and pull down, his thumbs trace circles on my hips
and I buck and moan and I'm already getting hard from this minor foreplay.

	His mouth is on my neck, sucking, tasting, *drinking* sweat and
shower water.  I hear him swallow, feel his mouth go down and down, feel
his hands move up to tease my nipples through the flimsy material of my
shirt.  Jesus Christ, I don't think I've ever wanted anything so bad.  His
hand is on my cock, pulling and stroking me, and I thrust my hips into his
hand, say his name.  

	"Shane..."

	He murmurs into my chest, sucks and bites, kisses and licks his
way further down, until he's on his knees and I'm faint with want.  With 
need.	

	When he takes me into his mouth, I think I'm close to passing out.
His tongue licks up and down the sides, his hand pulling and stroking at
what won't fit in his mouth, and I have to moan and gasp.  It's so hot and
wet, and I'm fucking his mouth like a man dying.  I grab the back of his
head and thrust hard, and he takes it.  Takes it all.

	Dizzy, heady, hot, I look down and see his head moving on me, his 
sweet, pink lips swollen and spread as he sucks and swallows me whole.  His
eyes are closed, and he's stroking himself with quick frantic jerks as he
continues to give me the most amazing blow job of my life.  No wonder they
call him the Boy Wonder.  It makes me wonder myself...how many others have
experienced this?

	When he draws back and flicks his tongue over the tip of my cock,
then plunges down on it again, I can't hold back any longer.  I come hard
and with a scream, gripping his hair tight and letting my hips buck one
last time into his mouth.  I hear him swallow and moan, hear a smack of 
lips and feel his hair against my stomach.

	Both our breathing is ragged, and I can hardly see straight.  I'm
not sure what to say.  'Thank-you, Shane'?  'Wow, Shane'?  'You sure know
how to give great head Shane'?

	A light *swish* sound makes me blink.  There's something cold and
sharp pressing up against my thigh.  I look down and fear, icy hot and
burning cold, hits me.  Hard.  Oh no.  Oh shit.

	"Don't look so surprised."  Shane gets to his feet, the knife never
once leaving my skin.  He presses it up against my neck and leans in close,
I see wetness on his lips.  "I promise - no pain."

	Shane?

	The knife is against my throat, and it moves so fucking fast that 
I don't even have a chance to fully register its implication before I'm 
hurt, bleeding, and I'm falling.

	Shane catches me in his arms, lowers me to the ground and watches
with that same detached look he's had all night as I bleed.  As I die.  
Like Shawn.

	"I didn't want to kill you."  He looks odd.  Almost as if he meant
it.  "I didn't want to kill Shawn either.  I certainly didn't want to kill 
him that way - but I had to make it look like a crime of passion."  His 
hand reaches out and strokes my hair away from my face.  But it's all so 
blurry now, he's so far away.

	I can feel something sticky and wet trailing down my chest, there's
too much liquid on my throat, and when I cough, I feel a wetness on my lips.  
It hurts, but it doesn't.  I'm so far away from it all, I feel like I just 
dipped into Jesse's stash and I'm floating.

	It's hard to breathe.  So I stop.

	His voice wavers, dips, swings on the air.  "I'm sorry it had to 
end this way, Sean.  I am.  But you showed up before I could get rid of 
the body..."

	Like a dream, I think I'm going to wake up, but instead, I fall
asleep.  And the last thing I feel, the last thing I see, is Shane McMahon.

	His kiss on my lips as I die.
 

 

**End