It was just another morning in Dudleyville.
Bubba Ray had just woken from his nightly sleep, while Devon was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.
In the living room, Little Spike Dudley and Dances With Dudley were plotting yet another prank on Sign Guy Dudley, while Dudley Dudley sat in his recliner, reading the morning paper.
Just as Bubba walked into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of juice, he heard a knock at the front door.
He rushed to the door, wondering who would be calling this early in the morning.
As he opened the front door, he saw that no one was there.
Frustrated, he was just about to close the door when he noticed two overweight men, lying unconscious on the Dudleys’ front lawn.
Bubba Ray went outside to take a closer look, and, indeed, two overweight men, reeking with perfume, wearing pink dresses, were lying unconscious in a 69 position on his front lawn.
Bubba then rolled the one off the other, and saw that on the pink dresses, the words ‘Sissy Boys’ were written on them.
Upon further investigation, Bubba noticed they had also been shaven bald and had makeup smeared across their faces.
At first, he wasn’t sure who these two men were, but soon, he realized who these two men were – Brian Knobbs and Jerry Sags, collectively known as the Nasty Boys, who have recently proven to be a rather painful thorn in the side of Team 3D.
“Hey!
Devon!” Bubba Ray shouted.
“You gotta see this!”
Devon Dudley came running out of the house, rushing towards his brother, who was standing amidst the beaten and humiliated ‘Sissy Boys’.
“Looks like Christmas came early this year,” Bubba Ray said to Devon.
“Oh, my brother,” Devon said, smiling at the sight.
“Testify!”
*************
Inside the Anaheim Memorial Medical Center, in Anaheim, California, Taylor Wilde sat by the bedside of her friend, Matt Hardy, who had been brutally beaten by the Nasty Boys just days before.
With her was her tag partner, Sarita, who rushed to Anaheim the moment she got word that Taylor had been attacked in the Kazarians’ home.
Fortunately, Taylor escaped relatively unharmed, thanks to the interference of Cheerleader Melissa, once known as the future legend, Alyssa Flash.
Matt Hardy, on the other hand, was not nearly as lucky, having faced the Nasty Boys head on, bravely and defiantly defending Taylor and Traci Brooks from the Nasty Boys’ assault.
His condition was stable, for now, but he was still under constant watch.
Matt suffered a number of injuries, including fractured ribs, a broken arm, at least one concussion, and massive internal bleeding.
The staff at the Anaheim Memorial Medical Center kept saying, repeatedly, that Matt Hardy was lucky to still be alive after such an assault.
In this very moment, Taylor thought to herself that the WWE Marketing Department certainly knew what they were doing the day they crafted the slogan, ‘Matt Hardy Will Not Die!’
Perhaps that will to survive, more than anything else, is why Matt Hardy, as broken as he was in this moment, was still here despite it all.
As Matt lie sleeping, Taylor could not help but blame herself for Matt’s condition.
“This is all my fault,” Taylor lamented, looking upon the beaten body of her friend.
“I should have never let him come with me.”
“Taylor,” Sarita said to her partner, “you had no idea this would happen.
None of us did.”
“I should have seen it coming,” Taylor replied.
“The moment Matt said he wanted to come with me.
That he didn’t feel right about me coming out here alone… I should have known something like this would happen.
Matt was right.
This whole time, he was right.
And I just brushed it off.
Said he was being paranoid.
That he was being overprotective.”
Sarita hugged Taylor and said to her, “It’s not your fault, Taylor.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
It was the Nasty Boys.
The Nasty Boys and Bischoff…”
“Bischoff,” Taylor said.
“Bischoff wanted me gone.
The Nasty Boys… when the got there, they said they had releases.
One for Traci, one for Frankie… and one for me.”
“Wait, you mean…?” Sarita started.
“I’m being fired,” Taylor said.
“Hogan didn’t think I was ‘on board’ with his plans, so he had Bischoff send the Nasty Boys to get rid of me.
Matt tried to stop them.”
“Wait,” Sarita said, “the Nasty Boys broke into Traci’s house… just to give you guys your release?”
“Apparently, they do more than just hand you some paperwork,” Taylor answered.
“They beat you down and humiliate you, too.
Melissa said they f*cked her up pretty good, then shoved her face into their armpits until she passed out.
Woke up a day or so later in a pile of her own vomit.
People thought she was Syxx-Pac, passed out after a bender…”
“So, the beating Matt took?” Sarita asked, almost knowing the answer.
“Was meant for Traci and me,” Taylor answered, allowing her guilt to consume her.
Downstairs, in the lobby, a cocky, Caucasian male, dressed to the nines with bleached blonde hair made his way to the Administration Desk.
His name?
Ken Anderson, better known to WWE fans as ‘Mr. Kennedy’.
These days, under his real name, Mr. Anderson competes part-time for TNA while trying to make his name in Hollywood as an actor.
After his performance in Behind Enemy Lines: Columbia, it seemed that Anderson had lined up a series of action roles, all perhaps doomed to die as Straight-To-DVD releases, just as his last film had.
Regardless, this day, Mr. Anderson was on a mission, a mission given to him by the Acting Head of TNA Himself, Hulk Hogan.
“Excuse me, miss,” Mr. Anderson said to the administrative secretary on hand.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Matt Hardy, do you?”
“I’m sorry… Matt Hardy?” she said to him.
“Yes, Matt Hardy,” he replied, impatiently.
“He was brought here several days ago, allegedly beaten to death with a baseball bat or something… it’s not important.
All that’s important right now, here, is that you tell me, what room is Matt Hardy in, so I can go and see him.
All right?”
“Well,” the secretary began, “if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll look up what room he’s in, and if he’s allowed visitors.”
As she typed on her computer, looking up the needed information, Ken Anderson grew increasingly more impatient.
He looked at his watch, then back at the secretary, then back at his watch again.
“You think you can hurry this up?
I have lunch in an hour with my agent!” Mr. Anderson barked at the administration worker.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the secretary said, “but Mr. Hardy has a restricted visitors list.
Security concerns, I’m afraid.
I’m not going to be allowed to let you see him without seeing an ID first.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Mr. Anderson said angrily.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she repeated, “but given his condition and the circumstances which brought him here, I’m afraid I can’t allow any unapproved visitors to see him at this time.
Now, I’m sure that your name is on this list, but I do have to see at least one form of identification before I can allow you to see him.”
“You want to see my ID?” Mr. Anderson said to her.
“I’ll give you an ID!”
Anderson then grabs the poor girl by the collar and drags her out from behind her desk.
He then proceeds to give her a Mic Check, driving her face violently into the marble floor below, knocking her unconscious.
Getting up, Mr. Anderson points to yet another administrative worker and says, “Hey, you!
If you don’t want to end up like your friend here, get your nerdy ass over here and tell me what room Matt Hardy’s in!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the young man said nervously.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Anderson barked, angrily pointing his figure at the skinny young man.
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, sir,” the boy stammered, “but unless your name is on the list, you’ll never get past security.”
“Oh, well!” Mr. Anderson shouted.
“Then I guess you’re just going to have to put my name on that list, aren’t you?”
“Uh… uh…” the boy stammered, nearly pissing his pants in fear of the well-dressed blonde man shouting at him.
“Well?” Anderson asked the boy.
“Uh… of course!” the boy said.
“Then hop to it, Einstein!” Anderson ordered.
The boy rushed over to the computer and asked, “Um… what’s your name, sir?”
“My name?” Anderson asked, relishing at the prospect at being able to shout his name in his trademark manner.
“Yeah,” the boy answered.
“I can’t put your name on the list if I don’t know your name, sir.”
“Well, if you insist,” Anderson smiled.
“It’s MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR….AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDERSON!!!!”
“Thank you,” the boy said.
“…ANDERSON!” Ken concluded.
“He’s in room 316,” the boy said.
“Just take the elevator, down the hall and to the right, and…”
“No problem, kid,” Anderson said, rushing off without letting the boy finish his sentence.
Upstairs, in room 316, Matt Hardy was still asleep, doped up on painkillers, completely unaware of his surroundings.
Meanwhile, Sarita was still trying to convince Taylor Wilde to stop blaming herself for Matt’s condition.
Unfortunately, no matter what she said or what she could do, the guilt Taylor Wilde felt had completely overcome her.
The release, and the beating that came with it, was meant for her and Traci Brooks.
Instead, someone who had never even worked for TNA was the victim of the Nasty Boys’ assault.
A man who rarely thought of himself, so much so that he would willingly stand the line of violent thugs for, in some cases, people he barely knew.
Matt Hardy had come to Taylor’s rescue one too many times, and now, because of her supposed recklessness, the man she had come to know over the years as a true friend, was now on the brink of death.
“I don’t know how I can ever forgive myself, Sara,” Taylor said to Sarita.
“Or if he even will.
Once he realizes what’s going on…”
“If Matt’s anything like you’ve been telling me these past few months,” Sarita began, “he’s not going to be upset.
He obviously cares about you.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even come out here.
Besides, doesn’t his brother have some drama going on right now?”
“Oh, Jeff?” Taylor asked.
“Jeff’s apparently got some legal issues going on.
Matt didn’t really tell me much.
Just that he’s worried about his brother… he’s always worried about Jeff, really.
Even when it’s something simple, Matt’s always worried Jeff’s going to something crazy.”
“Like sign to TNA?” Sarita said.
“Yeah,” Taylor replied.
“I mean, Matt has an idea of what things are like here.
The politics, the back-biting, the egos… but before Hogan came, it was all different.
Manageable, even.
Most of it didn’t even affect us, really.
The Knockouts always pulled good numbers, so TNA and the network never really had any problems with us.
The only thing you could say, really, was that we were criminally underpaid considering just how well our segments did on a weekly basis.
Especially Kong.
I know we’ve all had our issues with her in the past, but you and I both know she’s one of the best TNA’s had, of either gender, in the ring.
But, even then, at least we were on TV, and most of the time, we weren’t made to look like complete idiots.
I mean, at least we were better off than the X Division guys!
Sabin and Shelley could raise people from the dead and TNA STILL wouldn’t do anything with them!
But, then, this whole thing with Hogan began.
At first, it seemed kind of cool, because we had this huge, mainstream star coming in to TNA.
Maybe, for the first time, since… well, ever, really… we’d all get a real shot to prove ourselves in front of the largest wrestling audience possible, on a Monday night, no less!
Then… all these outsiders came.
The Nasty Boys.
Hall and Syxx-Pac.
Sean Morley.
Orlando Jordan.
Ric Flair.
And alongside them was Shannon Moore and Jeff Hardy.
Matt was texting me all night, asking me if I knew anything about it.
I didn’t.
Jeff never mentioned it to me.
Hell, I even saw him at Matt’s New Year’s Party, right after Sheamus tried to make a move on me!
He never said anything about coming to TNA.”
“So,” Sarita began, “Why did he sign?”
“I don’t know,” Taylor answered.
“And neither does Matt.
They really haven’t talked much since.
Matt’s been really worried about him, too.
I think, maybe, that’s why he was asking so many questions about Frankie when we were at Traci’s.
Maybe he thinks all of this is connected somehow.
Hogan.
Jeff going to TNA.
Frankie getting locked up in an asylum.
And all the releases lately.”
“Do you think they’re related?” Sarita asked.
“I really don’t know, Sara,” Taylor answered.
“I honestly don’t know.”
A loud, booming voice bellowed in from behind Taylor and Sarita.
“Well, it’s nice to know Prop 8 didn’t do a damn thing to discourage the lesbian community from flaunting their immorality!”
They turned around to see the voice belonged to Ken Anderson, who had just minutes before assaulted the administrative staff, forcing his way here.
“What is it with these right-wing nutjobs and homosexuality, anyway?” Sarita asked Taylor.
“Even if we were lovers, what business is it of yours?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Anderson bellowed.
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn.
So why don’t you back your migrant working ass up a step or five, and let the LEGAL residents have a conversation.
Or should I just call La Migra and have THEM ship your greasy, job-stealing ass back to Mexico or whatever South American hellhole you crawled out of!”
Sarita, amazed by Anderson’s statement, simply said, “I’m Canadian, you racist, loud-mouthed bastard!”
“So am I,” Taylor interjected.
“Oh,” Anderson said, shocked by these statements.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Taylor insisted.
“Well, then maybe the two of you should go, shovel some snow and get gay married in America, Jr., then!” Anderson retorted.
“Um…” Taylor began, “doesn’t quite work as well with Canadians.
Sorry.”
“Damn it,” Anderson lamented.
“Can I at least call you a couple of carpet-licking moose-hunters, or something?
I mean, really.
I need something here!”
“How about you tell us what you’re doing here, Kennedy,” Sarita said to him.
“My name’s… not… KENNEDY!!!” Anderson shouted angrily.
“It’s MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAR…”
“Anderson!
Anderson!
Sorry!” Sarita shouted, interrupting Ken’s trademark introduction.
“Damn it,” Ken complained.
“Why’d you have to go and interrupt my intro?
Don’t you know that’s all I have, really?”
“Can you just tell us why you’re here before we all die of boredom?” Taylor sighed.
“Oh, yeah,” Anderson remembered.
“I’m here with a message from the Savior of TNA, Hulk Hogan.”
“Oh, really?
You come here to finish the job the Nasty Boys started?” Taylor said, attempting to get up in Anderson’s face.
Unfortunately, being a full foot shorter than Kennedy, Taylor only managed to get up to about Anderson’s chest.
“Not exactly, little girl,” Anderson said, placing his index finger on Taylor’s forehead and pushing her back.
“You see, Hogan’s had a change of heart when it comes to you,” Anderson then turns his attention to Sartia and continues, “and your flat-chested girlfriend, over here.
Seriously, you’re in a hospital in Southern California, for Christ’s sake.
Get yourself a boob-job, honey!
Maybe then you might almost resemble a woman!”
Sarita, both offended and embarrassed, crosses her arms over her chest and glares a hole into Mr. Anderson.
“Anyway,” Anderson continued, “Mr. Hogan has asked me to come here today to let you know that he’s decided not to release you, after all.
Seems he’s not interested in letting you off that easy.”
“What do you mean, ‘letting me off that easy’?
Beating my friend to death wasn’t enough for Hogan?” Taylor asked.
“Oh, no, it was,” Anderson answered.
“At first.
But now, you’ve really gone and pissed him off.
Personally, if I were you, I’d shave my head, change my name, and move to Timbuktu, but seeing as how you’re just dumb enough to think there’s some ‘massive conspiracy’ against all of TNA, you’re probably not smart enough to realize just how deep a sh*t you’re in!
See, Hulk Hogan came to TNA to make it better, to take all of you losers to heights you couldn’t possibly imagine.
In short, Hulk Hogan has come to TNA to save TNA from itself.
But, instead of being grateful to Hulk for his months of sacrifice, sharing his years of knowledge with Dixie Carter, and doing everything necessary to make TNA the Number One Wrestling Organization on the Planet, ungrateful rats like you, Kong, and Suicide have to get in the way.
You really think the fans give a rat’s ass about the X-Division, or the six-sided ring, or even your precious Knockouts division?
Please.
When it comes to women in wrestling, honey, all we care about is how big your tits are, how blonde your hair is, and just how much skin you’re willing to show on National TV!
That’s it.
No one gives a damn if you can wrestle five star matches or one star matches.
Just so long as people are willing to pony up the cash to watch you shake your tits!”
“You really think the fans are going to fall in line for this?” Taylor said to Mr. Anderson.
“People in WWE have been doing the same sh*t for years now, giving fans of pro wrestling a ‘sports entertainment’ product they couldn’t possibly want!
What about the fans who DON’T like watching a bunch of over-inflated egos talk endlessly about the same five things in promos that seem to last for weeks on end?
What about the fans who want to see smaller, more athletic wrestlers performing death-defying moves instead of the same lumbering bodybuilders week after week?
What about the fans who love and respect the art of professional wrestling, and want to see athletes, in the ring, do what they do better than anyone else in the world?
And why on earth would anyone, including Hulk Hogan, believe for a second that anyone who would tune in to watch TNA each and every week would want to watch the exact same show they got sick of watching the WWE put on every single week for the past eight years?
Believe it or not, there are fans out there who want to see women athletes wrestle.
Hell, I have fan letters from some who actually GET OFF on the prospect of two strong, athletic, beautiful women having a competitive wrestling match!
And I know damn well that the people who actually watch TNA, and even most of the people watching WWE, want to see the younger, faster, more athletic wrestlers of the world get the spotlight!
There is no reason in the world why TNA shouldn’t be wiping the floor with WWE week after week, but instead of giving the fans what the really want, an actual ALTERNATIVE to the ‘Sports Entertainment’ that WWE specializes in, all you guys want to do in hotshot a bunch of worn-out, tired names from yesteryear who no one wants to see anymore, because if they did, they’d be getting their paychecks from Vince McMahon, not Dixie Carter!”
“And the heresy continues!” Anderson shouted.
“And, to think, at first, I thought the idea that Hogan wanted to make you suffer was a bit much.
Guess I was wrong about you, Taylor.
You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Guess not,” Taylor said, defiantly, “…Kennedy.”
Mr. Anderson sighed, then grabbed Taylor by the throat, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “You listen here, missy!
No one, and I mean NO ONE calls me by that name anymore.
Do you understand me?”
“Suck it, Kennedy,” Taylor responded.
“Oh, there you go!
Infringing on TWO copyrights, now!”
Looking up, he saw Sarita reaching for a metal bedpan, and said to her, “Trust me, Chica.
You don’t want to try anything, all right.
I have absolutely no problem snapping your girl’s neck right here and now.
So back off, and let us finish our little chat, or else Taylor here’s going wind up in a bed right next to Matt Hardy!”
Sarita backs off, keeping her hands in sight, knowing that Anderson was dead serious about his threats.
Looking back to Taylor, Anderson continued, “Let me tell you something, Taylor.
The New Vision of TNA, it’s going to happen, with you, or without you.
There’s nothing you can do to stop it, and, legally speaking, there’s no where else you can go to escape it.
You want to wrestle?
You’re going to do it in TNA.
And if Hulk Hogan wants you to shake your boobies for the camera, you’re going to say ‘how long?’ And if you don’t, there’s going to be hell to pay.
And when the day comes, and Hogan finally decides to drop the axe on you one last time, believe you me, I’m going to be the first man in line to take you out, personally.
And, this time, I’m not going to beat the hell out of one of your friends.
Oh, no.
I’m going to beat the living hell out of every single person you hold dear!
Your mother!
Your brothers!
Your little girlfriend over there.
Hell, I’ll even beat the sh*t out of every single one of your fans, and the worst part?
I’m going to make you watch.
That’s right.
I’m going to make you watch, as I break apart every single person you hold dear in your life!
So you better be grateful, missy, that Hulk Hogan still finds some value in you, because the day you live out your usefulness to TNA, I’ll be there, waiting.
And if you think you’re agonizing now, just because your little boyfriend here got in the Nasty Boys way, just wait.
When I’m cracking your mother’s skull open, just to watch her bleed, and you’re there, helpless, unable to stop me… then… then you’ll know what suffering really is.
And then, maybe then, you might finally begin to understand just how unlucky you were to ever cross paths with MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR…. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDERSON!!!!”
With that, Ken Anderson released Taylor from his grasp, composed himself, and made his way towards the door.
Just before he could leave, though, he took one last look back at Taylor Wilde…
“…ANDERSON!!!”
…and left her behind.