<center>William Shamrock vs Subway Jack
First Myra, and now this?!</center>

"I hate your plan." A woman's voice.

A kiss to her lips, from the side. "You don't even know my plan."

She refuses to be comforted. "If I was going to like your plan, you wouldn't make me ask what it was."

"Am I that obvious?"

"There's nothing about you that isn't obvious."

The two of them shared a bed, in her room. They were old friends, this was an old conversation. The rhythms were comforting. He let the silence grow, until at last she had to break it. "It's about your match - you've got that little boy glow in your eyes."

"Mmhmm." She was tense, so he started on a massage. Traced a slow finger down her back, near the side of her spine. Just enough pressure to make it interesting. He didn't go anywhere he shouldn't, lightened the touch as it decended...

Then he began to spin lazy circles around her shoulder blades, adding one finger on each turn.

She smiled, because he had succeeded in annoying her once again. And his fingers, which were magical, were making it all the worse for him. Which is of course what he wanted.

"Alright, you win your little game. Tell me what your brilliant plan is, so I can arrange to be out of town when you need me to bail you out."

"Relax. Money won't be an issue." He'd rehearsed this speech. "My opponent is living comfortably, and I think he might be willing to help us out in exchange for a few favors."

"Isn't that what you said about the mafia?" She broke free of the spell, as she realized his new plan was like his old plans, and turned to face him. "You're going to throw the fight."

"He's new. He could use the publicity. Imagine the audience's horror, as he completely destroys me, we're talking a hate crime. If I'm lucky, he'll put me in the hospital. I don't have to wrestle, but I still get paid, and everyone talks about the sick bumps I'll take. Meanwhile, he's a monster. Title shots follow. He remembers who helped him out - "

She couldn't believe he was this insane. "He fucks you up the ass because you bend over and beg. What makes you think he's going to come through on the payment once he's killed you?"

"Well, the check cleared..."

The pillow softened the blow, but the class ring on her finger still left him with a decent bruise around his eye. It went nicely with the others. She didn't even fully dress before slamming the door. He sighed. Once she calmed down, she'd be back to throw him out of her apartment.

He'd better be scarce by then...

A long limo pulls into the parking garage, and the driver hurries out to open the door. William Shamrock steps out of the limo, adjusting his sunglasses. The driver pulls the bags out of the trunk, and walks behind Shamrock. The two walk for a few moments before Shamrock comes to a door with his name on it..Shamrock opens the door, and the driver follows, depositing the bags on the floor just inside the door. The driver turns to leave, stopping at the door.

"Good luck, sir. It's too bad about your last match."

"Yes" Shamrock says. He digs around in his pocket, pulling out a large wad of bills. He tosses the money across the room to the driver, who catches the money.

"Thank you sir, thank you very much."

"No problem. Just don't blow it on one girl."

The driver leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Shamrock walks slowly around the spacious room. Shamrock walks over to the bathroom, and pushes open the ajar door. Shamrock flips on the light, revealing a shabby man sitting, clothed, in the tub.

"What the fuck, man?? Get out of here, fucking hobo. SECURITY!!!!"

The man stands up, and puts one hand inside his grubby coat. Shamrock takes a step back, thinking the man may be going for a weapon. The man removes his hand, clutching a dirty square of paper. The man outstretched his hand, and Shamrock warily took the paper. Shamrock looked down at the paper, recognizing his own personal check, a large red "PAID" stamp occupying most of the empty space on the check.

"You're my opponent? Damn, I though I was just paying off some jobber, this is even better"

Shamrock handed the man back the check.

"Remember, the check may have cleared, but you can't acess the money until after our match."

The man cleared his throat.

"Yeah. I know."

"Good. Now get the fuck out of here. Go sit in catering or something."

The man lurched himself to his feet, and got out of the empty tub. The man walked out of the bathroom, passing Shamrock, who noticed both the bruise around the man's eye and his odor. Shamrock stopped the man just before he left.

"Why don't I help you out a little?"

Shamrock opened his one bag, and pulled out a smaller bag. He unzipped this bag, and removed a small bottle of shampoo and a bottle of Lacoste cologne. He handed this to the man, and then fished a $50 out of his pocket.

"Why don't you take a cab to a barber. Get a shave, maybe a haircut? You gotta look good when I win."

The man looked down at the supplies in his hands, before shuffling out of the room. Shamrock looked down at his now empty bag of toiletries, and then looked down into the tub, dirt, twigs and leaves sitting on the porcelean.

"Not like I'm gonna be using this shower anyways."

"You used his bathroom - "

"Because I stepped on a dog log, yeah." Small room, a bedroom, actually. It's not what you think. The woman knows better. She still thinks of him as a brother, though, even after the break-up. He hadn't fought back, he'd even taken the toaster she'd thrown like he was Jesus magnet.

Her name is Mary. Once she was a wrestler too. Not the best, but then again, neither was he.

Right now she's giving him a shave. Why? Because she dosen't trust him to know when to cut himself.

"Ow."

Like now.

"Sorry." She smiled, cheered by the blood. "So tell me again, why you aren't staying in a hotel?"

"I thought you wanted honest answers -ow! You're doing this on purpose."

"I could do worse. You know I got a phone call from Elsie - " He went pale, stopped breathing.

"I didn't - "

"Not for lack of trying, obviously. I lied." She listened to his protest as he nicked his nose. Warm fuzziness. There must be something wrong with her inside. "Look, Jack, why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Doing what to myself? Where did I miss the jump off point for this conversation?"

"Shut up, you're cuter when you're quiet. I saw the latest show, I saw how Shamrock looked at you - it's how everyone else looks at you, except when you're motivated to try to sneak into their pants. And you like it. You want to be underestimated - "

"It's called psychology."

"But that's not enough for you. You want to be hated. You want people to try to hurt you."

"Like now?"

She stopped, realized she'd been played. "Get out."

He realized he'd been playing. Stopped on his way out the door. "I'm sorry."

She didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at him. "I hope someone hurts you the way you want to be hurt. I hope it's this next match. Maybe he can beat it out of your system, before you kill yourself...."

She hoped it wasn't too late.

Shamrock sat on the leather couch, watching the Yankee game, when someone knocked at his door. Shamrock sighed.

Who can it be now? he thought as he opened the door, showing a UPS man standing, holding a package.

"Package for Mr. Shamrock. Sign here please."

Shamrock scrawled his signature on the line, and then took the package. Shamrock then swung the heavy door shut in the man's face. Shamrock bolted the door, walking back to his place on the couch. He put the box down on the table, and fished inside his sport coat. He removed his hand, and flicked his wrist, revealing a small knife. Shamrock slit the box open, and pulled out the contents: A Manilla envelope, several large, glossy photos and a business card. Shamrock opened the envelope first, revealing a typed report.

"Subway Jack" Shamrock spoke to himself. "Let's see what we've got on him"

Shamrock flipped through the small report.

"Nothing? I pay this guy $3,000 a pop to tell me nothing? No current residence, no former employers. Nothing. Nobody knows anything about this guy."

Shamrock pushed the report away, picking up the photos.

"And these are crap. They just show this bum sleeping in the hallway. This is no help to me whatsoever. Goddamn."

Shamrock picked up the business card, flipped open his phone, and dialed his guy.

"Phil. It's Shamrock. This new report sucks. What the fuck am I paying you for? I could've figured this out. Enjoy that last check I sent, it'll be your last."

Shamrock slammed his phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked at the business card now crumpled in his hand. Shamrock gathered up the folder, and dumped it into the garbage by the door. Shamrock then walked out the door, closing it behind him. He was going to take a walk, and try to talk to Jack about their "match".

"Are you getting off on this?" The rich kid asked. He stopped kicking the poor kid, who had rolled out a nice red carpet of blood for him.

"What?" The poor kid took a moment to gather his wits about him, as he'd lost bits of his mind when he was dropped on his head.

"I said -"

"I heard you, you sick bastard."

"Me? You're the one who's just lying there with a shit eating grin on your face while I-"

"You're the one who paid for the privilege, you sick fuck -"

"Check bounced, freak. Don't bother to cash it. After the beating I gave you, there's no way you stand a chance."

"You..."

"Need a shower."

"...are..."

"Going to let my friends handle you. There are laws against your kind."

"..so..."

"Bored. Bye."

Subway Jack rose to his feet, dizzy to being sick as the world spun round. He clenched hs fist.

He fell.

But the fist connected.

Cracked the nose.

Jack caught himself on the way down. Stood tall...leaned on a railing. Blinked the blood away. Blacked out.

Opened one eye just in time to catch the fist aimed in his direction. Flashed a devil's grin.

"Okay." He said. "Let's take it again from the top."