What do you do when a teenage movie star makes it seem as if you've kidnapped him? After working two summers at his father's health club as a towel boy, Peter Fisk saved enough money to visit California. He literally runs into Lance Hardwood in his...
I mean that. Fate will rough you up, spin you around and spank your sorry ass before knocking you out flat. I want to say that I screamed. I want to say that I brandished a sword and fought my way through to kill Hector and save Lance. I really wanted to take a running leap and jump into the mud pit and landing on top of Hector, smashing his pretty face into the mud and knocking out a few expensive implants in the process.
But, you see, that would totally ruin my suit.
I'm kidding. The truth was, I didn't know what the hell to do. It took a few minutes, once I'd gotten over seeing Lance's mud-soaked briefs cling in places it had no moral right to cling to, my Order powers took over. I had some vague idea of how this mud-puddle-mania worked. (I wrote a paper for an A.P. Biology course – the effects of gimmickry on muscle strain in career wrestlers. Not that I had any interest in the science – I just had a crush on John Cena.)
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I made a bunch of educated guesses and waved one of the tablet-holding waiters over. "Who's sponsoring the guy getting beaten up in there?"
"No one, sir. He's an independent. He keeps all his winnings. Which looks unlikely."
"I'm sponsoring him now. And my other guy's taking over."
"Your name?" This would send a signal to Lance that help had arrived. Of course, it would later be followed by a royal scream fest. "King Arthur. And my new champion's name is Black Thunder!" He'd been standing beside me during the whole conversation, and he was grinning like a kid at Christmas, as if I'd handed him the best gift ever.
He let out a shout that silenced everyone in the room. In one move, he grabbed his jeans at the waist and yanked them off. Gotta love Velcro. He was wearing an athletic supporter with the USMC logo stretched to the limit in front, and the bulldog mascot across his hypnotically sculpted butt. He really did leap into the mud pit, and yanked Hector off the wall he was desperately attempting to scale in order to escape.
I surprised myself by admitting that I wanted to see the guy flattened, humiliated, and stomped on. But getting Lance out of there and getting out of Vegas took priority. His eyes were having difficulty focusing. He looked at me tenderly. It didn't even matter that my suit was now mud caked. "I'm sorry," he said.
It was right then that the penthouse elevator doors spit forth The Mouseketeers. "There he is!" cried Mick, who stood two heads taller than anyone there. 'Stay where you are! We won't hurt you!" Since I didn't see who said that, by default it was 4 foot Manny. Suddenly, Black Thunder appeared by my side. "That was awesome. You need to..."
The second elevator (yes, there were two) opened. A gunshot rang out, missed the chandelier by an inch, and bounced into one of the emergency sprinklers instead. It was directly over said second elevator. A familiar trio emerged, soaked to the skin.
"Nobody moves, and no one gets hurt," Zoe said, trying very hard to stop her teeth from chattering, and shaking the water from her hair.
Jamie, this time carrying a longbow, teasingly sang, "Come out, Lance, Come out, wherever you are!"
