Brock Lesnar re-signs with WWE

They'd figured out the money, figured out the dates, figured out the monotonous details, but there was one more stipulation that Brock Lesnar wanted.

"Brock wants one more thing."

Vince shuffled uneasily in his chair as Lesnar's representative had the audacity to add another demand. Vince hates representatives, and for good reason. Fucking Goldberg.

"Brock wants to retain at Wrestlemania."

There they were. The words Vince dreaded most. They hit him like a dagger through his chest. Vince had received some bad news in his time. Nothing compares to this. The only thing that even comes close was when he had to drop his exploding limo storyline. Or when he had to make that midget his secret son. Those storylines were fucking gold goddamnit. As Vince rued those losses, he allowed himself to slip back into reality. Not Roman. Why do they have to go after Roman?

"And Brock wants it to be clean. No outside interference. He wants to go over to really hammer home his new deal. Losing to this Luther Reigns guy would kill his momentum."


The room fell silent as Vince smashed his fist on the table and rose to his feet. Vince's saliva was spattered across the table. The white hot rage that had flashed across Vince started to pass. He slumped back into his chair.

"Uhm... yeah... Roman. Still, Brock can't lose to this guy. His reaction is indifferent at best and he hasn't even began to penetrate the mainstream. Maybe at Extreme Rules, but at Wrestlemania? Sorry, we can't accept this. Not with UFC's extremely generous offer on the table."

Fucking Dana White. That bald prick just can't stay out of Vince's goddamn business. Vince wasn't going to give up on Roman just yet, though.

"What if we pay you double. Do the honours to Roman at Wrestlemania and I'll pay you whatever you want."

Vince prayed that this would be his solution. He'd worked too hard on Roman. He knew he was the one the second he laid eyes on him. The chiseled abs, the goatee, the hair. This kid was the total package. Plus, he is Samoan, and Vince knows how much the kids these days love Samoans.

"Well, if you're going to pay whatever we want... Brock?"

Vince eyed the representative as he choked out the words. Vince knew this son of a bitch would go for it. Greedy fucking representatives. Well, this time, Vince had him. I'll pay you enough and you'll put Roman over, won't you? You son of a bitch. What the fuck can't money buy?


Brock's words thumped through the room and reverberated off the walls. They hit Vince like a freight train and smashed him into a million pieces. He slumped further back into his chair.

"Well, in that case, Vince, we want to go over at Wrestlemania. Clean. Non-negotiable."

Vince was devastated. No feeling quite compared to this. Roman was going to be his salvation. He was going to roar and the crowd would roar with him. He'd spear people and the arena would explode. But now, he could just be another jobber. Another Daniel Bryan. Goddamnit, Vince hates that fucking midget. He always seems to haunt him at his darkest times. Vince shuddered at the thought of Wrestlemania 30.

"So, do we have a deal?"

Fuck you, fucking representative. Then he saw it. Vince eyed Brock smiling ever so slightly. Like he looks on TV when that fat pig Heyman is talking. That infuriated Vince more than he can remember. So much, that he'd gone beyond anger. Gone beyond resentment. Beyond frustration or grief. Vince had transcended human emotion, and became a soulless shell of a man. He had to do it. He had to muster the word that he feared the most.


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