Title: Livin' Like James Dean's Worst Nightmare
Featuring: Wicked Ways
Date: A Few Days Ago
Location: Page's Diner; ReVolution: 200 (~5 mi)

Two kids scamper across the diner to stand at the end of a table harboring one of PRIME’s most unforgettable figures. One of the kids, wearing a Flyin’ Hawaiian t-shirt, extends his copy of Wrestle Week and a black sharpie.

“Oh great,” cries the man eating his two-eggs-over-easy and bacon, “and I suppose you two are looking for some sort of signature or something?”

One boy smiles at the other, nudging him, “Yeah! That’s be awesome Mr. Scraps.”

“First of all, it’s Scraps,” he says, dangling his bacon at one of them to flesh out the nickname’s meaning. “Secondly…” he stares, playfully, at the kids before looking back to the yoke and pork strips on his plate, “No autographs. Get lost.”

He waves a hand at their existence and takes a sip off of his coffee, which really isn’t doing much for his Jameson-fueled hangover this morning. One kid frowns at the one who was nudging, so they both begin nudging one another until the bigger boy gets a shove that puts him in prime position �" BOOYA~! �" to make an argument for the John Hancock.

“Please please please please please please?” the boy begs.

Scraps, practically immune to whining it seems, simply looks over a few seconds after the boy finishes. He glares over his shoulder, while trying not to go blind from the reflection coming off of his PRIME Tag Team Title �" hanging on the coat-hook next to the table �" and then folds his arms over his chest with a huff of frustration.

“No no,” Scraps says, rolling his hands out after each words. “No, nonono, no no. NO!”

He slams the fork into the plate, sending it across the diner like a nine year old sends flat rocks across the creek. Fast, hard, and violently into somebody’s face. The woman tries to pry it free, as does her husband, but to no avail, 911 is surely on their way. Scraps, watching all this unfold, sees another arrest warrant in his immediate future.

“Damnit, kid,” he says through a scrunched-up angry-face and upset mannerisms, “Look what ya made me do! Dirty my fork. Now how do I finish these eggs?”

The other boy steps forward, “Here,” he says, handing him a fresh fork. Scraps looks at it, smiles, and musses the kid’s hair a bit. He goes back to his breakfast. Veljumin Rippa, proudly toting his PRIME Tag Team Championship, strolls up to the table, watching the mayhem take place in the booths behind them.

“Holy crap, Scraps!” he says, still gawking at the woman with the fork in her face. “did you see that lady with the fork in her face!? They can’t get it out. That is soooo freaking weird.”

“Fork in her face?” Scraps says, dismissively. “People these days, I tell ya.”

“Yeah,” Rippa looks back, taking one bite from his hash browns to notice the two kids, staring at him stuff his face full of thinly sliced potatoes. “Hey…whose kid’s are these?”

“Your’s, Rippa,” his partner snaps, sarcadtically. “How the Hell should I know? They just want some autograph.”

“But,” one starts with a high-pitch, “I gave you a fork! And you messed up my hair!”

Rippa looks at the child’s hair. “It does look messy, buddy. But…a new fork?”

“Uhhh, look!” Scraps says, finally standing up and slamming his fists into the table. “New forks are for losers, I never got no new fork. These kids are liars. Whaddaya say we take ‘em out back and turn ‘em into the twelve year old version of Elise Ares and Kazys Jankauskas!”

Rippa stares on, trying to follow his partner, and pets his massive blond beard, “I can see it now…we could get rich off of these kids, yeah?”

Scraps stands, besides himself, as is most often than not, and slaps ever taste bud right out of Rippa’s mouth. “What? NO! We’re the rich ones, the Wolves are the dead ones. Don’t you remember anything?”

“Oh, right,” Rippa says. He bites his tongue, briefly. “So do you kid’s want the autograph of PRIME’s top tag team or what, guys?”

The kid’s eyes bolt open, start bouncing back and forth between wrestlers, and then begin to panic and lose their minds. “Oh my gosh,” one boy chirps. “Can we please!? This is the best day, ever!”

Scraps takes two seconds to do what needs to be done: he steals the Sharpie from the boy, points it inches away from his face, and then snaps it in half. The ink splatters all over his face and hands, getting quite a stir from the Fork-in-the-Face crowd, who feel Karma is coming back a few times for his last act.

“No,” he starts; gearing up for a rant that will surely leave damages well over two-thousand dollars (American) if he goes any further. “This is not the best day ever. And, no, you cannot have the top tag team in PRIME’s autograph. Do you know why, kids?”

They gaze on in horror and say nothing, which every smart human that wants to live should do in this position.

“Because we’re the heels!” Scraps shouts then pauses, shifting his focus toward his partner, who probably couldn’t follow him into a closet. “We don’t give out autographs. You aren’t supposed to want signatures. We’re the bad guys. Don’t you get that? Do you think your beloved Elise Ares or Kaz Jankauskus go out and shill out autographs?”

One kid holds up his program, which happens to have each page signed by Elise Ares. Rippa’s jaw drops, pointing at the pages and then looking at Tom, like a frantic school girl in line for a Backstreet Boys reunion concert. “She does, look!”

“Jesus,” Scraps says, yanking Rippa’s hands away, then goes back to the lecture meant to drive away these fans. “We are the nastiest, the dirtiest, and probably the most unstable people you’ll ever meet. And you come up to us, during the Breakfast of Champions, and ask Wicked Ways for an autograph? You must be stark-raving-mad!”

Scraps looks to the window, spotting a few black and white Crown Victoria’s with rollers. He smirks, snatches his belt, and looks into each boy’s soul before hopping the bench and darting out the door. He comes back a few seconds later.

“Rippa,” he says, catching the big blonde’s attention. “Do you want to give your autograph out to all these people after they put you in handcuffs?” He waits, nods, and then smiles. “Quickly!”

The Swedish Shark, who, for lack of a better name, is only the size of a shark, jumps out of his seat and brushes by the kids who have just come to find out why, as many do, they call this pair of peons Wicked Ways and why it is they’re the heel team atop a mountain region of teams that try harder to be heels.

“You see that back there, Ripp?” Scraps says, yanking the door open just before taking off. “That right there is why those kids will remember us. Not because we do a dance, shake our ass, and walk around half-naked all the time. They’ll remember us for the fact that we are the dickhead champions and don't give a damn about anyone. Try and keep that in mind the next time you go into a diner and walk out without trying to injure somebody. Now get in the car. I want to get to that arena for Ares and that Bavarian ape. Maybe do a little Special Show Shit-Kickin', hmm hmmm?”

Rippa’s eyes burst open like blooming moon flowers, “Wait! That fork? In the lady’s face? That was you! Oh, Scraps, that was classic!”

A high five and rambunctious laugh are quick to end when the police show up. Scraps throws it in drive, slams the gas, and sends a bunch of rocks against the diner window to emphasize one thing �" wherever they are goin’, they are the bad guys, and they will act accordingly.
View Wicked Ways's Biography
Back