"You wish I was lying. I bet your still high on pot right now, and so you'll pretty much believe whatever this PJ fellow tells you. Hell, I bet this supposed PJ doesn't even have Lance's right number. In fact, let me call him right now."

The Avatar of Perfection pulls out his phone and calls Lance Storm and puts it on speaker. After a few rings, Lance picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Lance, buddy."

"Maverick? Hey, what the hell's going on?"

"Yeah, there's this douche named X- Pac who's calling me out as a fake, saying I never had special training from you, Regal, Jericho, nor those other guys."

"X- Pac? Dude, if you heard that from PJ, I haven't talked to him since a few years after we last tagged, which was about 5, maybe 6 years ago. I wasn't training Maverick by then. Oh, and also, please get your head out of the pot."

Maverick, looking triumphant, put the phone off speaker and put the phone to his ear.

"Anything else you need, Mav?"

"Nah, I just need you to get this guy's head out of his ass. Thanks, Lance, I'll let you go now."

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