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Cain · (05-10-2014)

Paul Heyman sat at his desk. After all, not only was he a manager, but he was the GM for Road to Xtreme. Which meant that he normally had to deal with talent outside of his circle. Talent that were not his clients. One such superstar unceremoniously barged into the office,dressed in a tailor made business suit. Heyman looked up at Cain, the intruder and sighed.

"Do you people EVER knock?"

The Original Beast non-chalantly made his way over to the desk, as if he hadn't even heard Heyman. Whether he chose not to was the question. He took a seat and leaned back, propping his size fourteen Gucci shoes up on Heyman's desk. Heyman arched a brow, but then got that rat fink grin.

"Nice shoes..."

His eyes narrowed and he glared at Cain, who polished and picked at his talon-like nails. How disrespectful.

"Now kindly remove them from....my....desk."

Cain sat there for a moment, and licked blood from a fingernail. Then looked at Heyman.

"Make me."

He cleaned bits of flesh from his claws like a big cat, Heyman just watched him with disgust. Heyman cleared his throat and called out.

"Security!"

"Dead."

Heyman was confused now. He looked at the Beast, and upon closer inspection, noticed a bit of grey matter on the heel of his shoe.

"Screw this. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna call the police."

Hey picked up the conference phone on the desk, and TRIED to dial a number. Suddenly, he just looked at Romulus, who lit up a cigarette, blankly. The cherry flashed, and smoke wafter through the air. Romulus shrugged and blew smoke toward "the boss".

"Cut the line."

Heyman sneered and slammed the phone down.

"WHAT the hell do you want from me?! You murder my security and cut my phone line! What's the deal, Winters?! What is WRONG with you?! You can't just run around doing whatever you want! Half this shit is illegal! Like, smok-"

"-I do whatever I want. Morbid Angel does. Why can't I?"

"You know damned good and well why!"

"Fuck you, Paul Heyman. Fuck you and your clients. Victory forever proved true, but mark my words...just because I've lost doesn't mean I am not a bad mother fucker. Do you understand me, you fat jewish piece of shit?"

Heyman sat there, stunned. He couldn't believe the audacity of Cain, a fellow jew. A non-practicing jew, that is. He struggled to speak.

"I...MY cliemt Brock Lesnar-"

"-can suck my fucking balls. The Beast Incarnate my ass! I was The Beast before that mother fucker was a sperm cell in his daddy's nut sack. Or an egg in that whore of a mother of his' blown out pussy. Undertaker let him win. But you know, he had to because that mother fucker looks like Opie Taylor and sounds like Minnie Mouse. Bitch Incarnate."

Heyman's mouth agape, he watched Master of Pain simply flick a cigarette into his floor. He shook his head.

"What's this really about?"

"What do you think, you big nosed, money grubbing son of a fat whore? I am pissed. I am SEVERELY fucking pissed."

Heyman arched a brow.

"Would you please...okay...no...I don't know what this is about. So why don't you enlighten me?"

"That check you gave me hasn't cleared. This isn't ECW, Heyman. So why don't you pull that oversized cellphone out and call the bank because..."

The Two Thousand year old Jew gave the fat one a menacing look.

"...if I don't get my money for this appearance, I am going to kill you and Tommy Gunn. If I do, I'm just going to beat Tommy Gunn like the bitch he is, and land him in the hospital. But like I said...money or die."

"But...I...you're rich, what do you need with money?!"

"You heard me. Money or die."

And so, Cain stood. Heyman? He was in shock as Cain calmly walked out of his office. He looked into the camera, a look of confusion on his face.

"Did that really just happen?"

-End Scene-

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