Beyond

Beyond Reason By Sarah Levin Colter Intuition gave him the heebie-jeebies, a sense of utter dread that caused him to consider going for backup before he went exploring. Against his better judgment, he flipped on the light, closed the door behind him and peered around the suite, half expecting Cody, Teddy or Santino to jump out from behind the dresser or from the closet. A loud ‘BOO!’ and lots of raucous laughter would relieve the nagging premonition. If it was just one of his goofy friends playing an immature prank, he could be happily annoyed with them. Since they were between shows in Canada, C.M. Punk had pitched in with five other young RAW wrestlers for the suite. They had two days to sleep, watch television, play video games and binge at the downstairs buffet before the show. Randy Orton and John Cena were still on the injured list, but they had accompanied them because, like Punk, they were simply addicted to the show. Punk knew somebody – or some*thing* was in the room. He dropped his luggage in front of the closet and tiptoed to the bathroom entrance to peep in. It was vacant. He sighed and plodded, less sneakily, into the second bedroom and switched on the light. Moving so quickly that he did not get a clear glimpse, a man jumped from behind the door, slid expertly behind him and grabbed him in a chokehold. Instinctively, Punk fought, but his attacker was not alone. A second man approached from the other side and leveled a gun to his head. Punk stopped struggling. Submitting, he held out his hands. “What do you want?” he asked, barely able to speak for the tightness of the forearm across his throat. The gunman answered. “You’re C.M. Punk. You’re that big wrestling superstar, ain’t you?” “I’m the champion,” Punk answered with as much bravado as possible. “What do you want from me?” “Pictures.”

“Pictures? I don’t have any with me. They keep those at the…” “We’ll take them ourselves. Just need you to cooperate.” The man indicated a cheap camera on the foot of the bed. Narrowing his eyes with suspicion, Punk asked, “What kind of pictures are you talking about?” “Pictures of you,” the gunman answered. “Boozing it up. Drinking, popping pills, all that shit. You got such a humongous following because of your so-called ‘straight edge’ lifestyle, and I’m getting tired of hearing all the young wrestling fans use that fucking term! I’m sick of the whole gimmick. It’s going to end. We’ll get pictures of you, put them on the internet, and pretty soon, all your little groupies will be disillusioned and wander away to find themselves a new hero.” “It’s not a gimmick,” Punk said, trying to control his racing heart. “There's no way I'm going to drink your booze, boys.” “Oh, yeah?” The man stepped in front of him and held up a fifth of amber liquid. “You’ll drink it, one way or another.” “You can’t force a man to drink!” Punk protested. “I can’t?” The man took the lid off the bottle and tipped it to his own lips. “Yeah, that’s good stuff. Here, have a taste.” Pressing the mouth of the bottle to Punk’s lips, he poured a few drops into his mouth. Punk immediately spit the whiskey at him. “No!” he said adamantly. “I’m not drinking your shit, you asshole!” The barrel of the gun was pressed threateningly against his cheek. “You had better be revising your attitude, Punk,” the man threatened. “Open up and drink it!” “You might as well go ahead and pull the trigger,” Punk said with bold vehemence. “Because it’s the only way you’re going to get that nasty stuff down my throat!” “Oh, so you’re going to play tough guy,” the man said wickedly. “Okay, we

can do it your way. Tom, put him on the bed.” The man behind him was fretful. “Don’t call me by my name, Ronnie. That is, unless we’re planning to waste him!” Even with the presence of the gun and the whiskey, Punk was smug. “Tom, Ronnie,” he said. “What are your last names?” “Lindsey,” Tom answered with a long-suffering sigh. “Shut the fuck up, you damn dummy,” Ronnie said. “I wasn’t planning to kill him! Now, we've *got* to!” Punk’s throat went dry. After a difficult gulp, he said, “You’re telling me those are your real names?” There was a pause before the gunman shook his head. “Of course not! We ain’t that stupid, you know.” Suddenly, the two men worked together to manhandle the captive wrestler to the bed. They threw him roughly across it. With the gun imminent, Punk dared not defy them any further. He lay still, waiting pensively. Tom bent over him, took hold of his shirt and began to pull it up. “Why are you undressing me?” Punk asked fearfully. “I thought this was about discrediting me. You’re planning to rape me, too?” “Might as well have some fun while we’re at it,” Ronnie said, and winked at him. He was sure they could hear his hammering heart. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do you want to hurt me? I have never seen either of you before, so I couldn't have offended you in any way! Why are you doing this?” “Because you ain’t the ‘goody-goody’ you pretend to be,” Ronnie sneered. “That’s why!” “You can’t hold my lifestyle against me!” Punk pleaded. “That’s crazy!” When the shirt was tugged harder, he relinquished it and shivered at the chill in the air when it was gone. At the gesture of the gun barrel, he kicked off

his shoes and shucked his jeans. In underpants and socks, he stared helplessly up at his abductors. "Don't do this," he warned. "You can go to prison for this shit." Paying no attention, Tom flicked his bared tits. "Look, Ronnie! Nipple rings!" Punk squirmed in discomfort, but the torment did not last long. The whiskey bottle came at him again, this time more insistently. He tried, but was unable to avoid getting a mouthful of the liquor. A hand clapped over his lips to prevent him from spitting again, and Tom blew in his face until he was forced to swallow. It literally took his breath away. Strangled, he struggled frantically to sit up, to catch his breath, but the two men held him down. Long seconds passed without the benefit of oxygen, and his world began to gray. He fought, and felt faint. Hot tinges flaired in his sinuses and his nose began to tingle with the presentiment of drowning. He was dying. Unable to breathe, he would not survive unless the two goons recognized his peril and assisted him, and they were ignorant. Obliviously, they poured more whiskey into his mouth. And then, suddenly, he was aware of others in the room; larger, stronger, more familiar men who began to fight with Ronnie and Tom. And then his world faded to black. __ The gun had been laid carefully aside, the two men restrained, and Punk's roommates hurred to check on him. Holding the attackers, Cody Rhodes, Ted Dibiase Jr. and Santino Marella watched on as Randy Orton and John Cena lifted the unconscious champion into a sitting position and shook him. He was as limp as a rag doll. "What the hell did you do to him?" Randy demanded of the Lindsey brothers. They merely stared with bovine brown eyes. Finally, realizing a response was required, Ronnie cleared his throat and shrugged. "Gave him a couple of swigs of whiskey, is all." Ted slapped the man in the back of the head. "You assholes!" he said. "We just wanted to get him drunk and take some pictures of him!" Tom

defended weakly, pointing to the camera. "What the hell for?" Cody asked, exasperated. "So we could show all these little do-gooders trying to be like him - all these dumbass little 'straight edge' freaks, that he ain't so perfect!" Ronnie said with righteous indignation. "Maybe he choked!" Santino suggested. "He's not used to whiskey. Check him out." Cena clapped their unbreathing friend on the back a few times, then laid him down on the bed. He bent and began to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation, four quick bursts of air followed by several more slower repetitions. Orton leaned to press his ear against the victim's chest, and reported, "Heart's beating." A second later, Punk drew in deeply, and expelled the breath with moist appreciation. With his airway clear, he dedicated the next minute to simply breathing. The roommates uttered a simultaneous sigh of relief. "He's going to be okay," Cena told them. His hands still on Punk's face, he bent down again to place a kiss on his forehead and spoke directly to him. "You're going to be okay." Punk's hazel eyes were grateful. "As for you two scoundrels," Cody said, shoving roughly at Tom Lindsey. "You get to go to jail tonight." He took out his cell phone and dialed. __ The police had taken the report, and the attackers had gone to jail. The six wrestlers were lounging quietly in the room, all eyes on Punk. He hadn't spoken for some time, and hadn't made a move since the cops had gone. He stared into the mid-distance as if deep in thought. He had gotten dressed, but had not buckled his belt or put on his shoes.

Finally, Randy reached out, patted his shoulder and asked, "You're okay, aren't you? They didn't do anything else?" Punk met his eyes and came to the present. "No, I'm okay. They didn't hurt me. I'm really glad you guys got here when you did, though." "Yeah, us, too," Randy said. He stifled a yawn. "I'm off to bed. You try to get some sleep, too, you hear?" "Thanks," Punk said. "Night." Randy wandered into the front room, and the other wrestlers followed, leaving John Cena alone with Punk. "Looks like you and I are sharing tonight," Cena said. "You're not feeling sick or anything are you?" "Not too bad," Punk said. "Just a little mad and a lot horrified." "Yeah, I hear you." "What the hell?" The gravity of the infraction was slowly expanding in his mind. "What were they trying to prove?" "They're idiots, babe. That's all they proved." "Yeah!" Sitting up and hugging his knees, Punk dragged trembling fingers through his shoulder-length hair. "They weren't here to rob me or beat me up. They did mention raping me, but I don't know if they would've followed through with that or not. They mainly just wanted to get me drunk to ruin my reputation. Makes no sense at all, John." "None," John agreed, patiently waiting for him to come to grips. "Those guys are beyond reason. They're jealous of people like us, because we're not pathetic losers like them. I hate seeing you so upset because of their useless shit." Punk looked around at him. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "You saved my life, and now you're having to sit here and listen to me bitch and whine. You're an awesome friend."

"Any time," John offered. "And if you need a shoulder, I've got two big, strong ones here. Pick one." Both arms stretched toward him to volunteer a hug. Biting off a sob, Punk plunged into the waiting arms and took comfort on a strong shoulder. __ Daylight peeked through the curtains and made odd, swirling dust shadows on the white wall. From another nearby suite, he could hear a vacuum cleaner whirring. John was still sleeping, his chest rhythmically rising and falling, and his massive muscles relaxed. Punk had slept better than usual with his cheek resting on the other man's shoulder and one arm draped loosely across his stomach. John smelled wonderfully restful and cuddly. Funny, how cuddly had a smell. Even funnier was the fact that he was in no hurry to extricate himself from the current cuddly situation. In fact, he was perfectly content to just lie there all day and bask in the pleasant sensations. When Cena moved, he said softly, "Good morning." After a yawn, John smiled at him. "Morning," he returned muzzily. With just a hint of clumsiness, he brushed three fingers through his bed-partner's dark hair. "You doing okay?" "Yeah," Punk assured him, smiling. "I'm doing okay." "Good. I'm glad." "You don't snore." "Really? Well, that's a good thing, I guess." "It's a real good thing." Punk considered touching his face, wondered if such blatantly smarmy action was wise, and before he had settled the inner dispute, his inclination won out. Laying his palm on the stubbly cheek, his eyes went soft with emotion. "Thank you," he said. Wrapping both arms around him, John hugged him tightly. "For what?"

"For being here." "I like being here." As they drew back, Cena eyes focused the ring in Punk's lower lip. "We've got all day, and tomorrow before we have to get up and go. We can lay right here the whole time if you want to." "I would like that." "Yeah, me, too." John seemed to be having his own inner debate, so Punk took the initiative. Sitting up on one elbow, he leaned over the handsome superstar and kissed him directly on the lips. When he lifted up to look at him, he met with burning interest. "That was nice," he commented quietly. "Yeah," John agreed wholeheartedly. "Real nice." He hugged him again. "Beyond nice." the end