His name was Terry Bollea, but he had long forgotten that name and now simply answered to "The Orange Goblin" after close to 20 years of being that person. Once he was a common bodybuilder on Venice Beach, moonlighting as the assistant to a nuclear physicist (thanks to connections from his father). Whereas the physicist was more concerned with petty things like particle acceleration than having fun in life, Terry knew that the secret of happiness lie elsewhere. And he was no slouch in the brains department, if he said so himself. He even had a theory that he felt would make him millions: If a standard tanning bed took three or four hours to give a satisfactory tan, then he could speed up the process a bit and become a millionaire. So, blindly ignorant to the facts of science and rational thought, he managed to jury-rig a tanning bed to a nuclear fisson reactor. It shouldn't have worked, but five minutes later he had the bossest tan in all of Calfornia. And he was also immensely radioactive and had suddenly gained the ability to cause solid objects to blow up on contact with his hands. But that TAN he would be the envy of everyone on the beach, assuming he didn't kill them. Which, in fact, he did, along with several bystanders and half a city block. Apparently his appearance had been altered somewhat by the experiment the next day in the paper (which he quickly scanned before it, too, blew up) he was dubbed "The Orange Goblin". In fact, he heard that name being called right then.

"Hey, Goblin, you got a visitor."

The padded door opened and hit the padded wall, sending a blast of fluorescent light into his cell and making him fall to the ground in pain from months of not seeing it.

He yelled obscenities at the orderly, but apparently six months in a solitary confinement cell in a mental hospital had rendered his speaking skills less than they used to be. Much like his powers, which quickly faded mere weeks after his run as the supervillain Flavor of the Month. He had been forced to adapt his act to a series of gimmick-powers and lowly bank robberies. Throughout it all, his half-brother Ed Leslie, constantly in search of the perfect villain name for the papers (which, to the Goblin, seemed to actually overshadow in Ed's mind the whole reason for being a supervillain sometimes), was the only one to stick by him even after his star had faded and he was just another has been defeated by the Justice Legion one time too many.

"Goblin?" the voice said, although he couldn't tell who it was thanks to his near-blindness from the light. "It's me, brother. Ed."

"Zodiac?" He answered carefully, trying desperately if he knew any other Eds, and specifically any of them who might want to kill him. Which was only 15% or so of the population. He would take those odds.

"No, I gave up that name a while ago. Too new-age. I tried Brutus for a while, doing a Roman centurion thing, but everyone thought I was gay. It got really annoying after a while because the first thing all the male bank tellers would ask was 'Are you gonna rape me, too?' and by the time I went through the whole spiel about judging by appearances, the cops were there."

"Huh?" The Goblin was in no condition to conduct any meaningful arguments right now.

"Sorry, I'm rambling again. No, I'm trying out a new thing now I found religion. My name is Disciple now." And indeed the former Zodiac was sporting a very neo-hippie beard and white robe. Goblin was pleased that he could make out those details. "I worry for your soul, brother. Together we can see the light."

"I've seen the light, dude, and it hurts like hell right now. Are you gonna get me out of here, or just save my soul?"

"Both."

And that's just what he did.

* * *

If Steve Austin were the paranoid type, he might wonder why mysterious packages of money were arriving in his mailbox every other day, even after he had been fired from his janitorial job at HHH Networks weeks earlier. In fact, his life recently had been making even less sense than usual the money arrived with a simple, hand-written note in it, telling him to go to some specific place at some specific time, and that was it. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he needed to do this sort of bizarre task, but for the money he was being sent (and because of a strange compulsion to obey that he had) he wasn't going to complain about it.

Today's note was simple, as usual: Go to the BCN offices located downtown, which were the central offices for the #3 network in the country, and make sure to arrive at 3:00 PM.

The other thing that might make him question his sanity (if he were the paranoid type, which he of course constantly reminded himself that he wasn't, also due to that compulsion mentioned earlier) was his seeming inability to recall what exactly he DID after arriving at the strange locations requested by the notes. In fact, it seemed like any given time he only had four thoughts running through his head.

1. Always obey the notes.
2. I'm not paranoid, everything is perfectly normal.
3. I love to watch all HHH-affiliated networks whenever the TV is on.
4. I AM NOT PARANOID.

That the second and fourth ones were almost the same thing would have seemed REALLY bizarre to him if he was the paranoid type, which of course he wasn't because two of the things constantly running through his head said he wasn't. And if he allowed himself to think those sorts of thoughts the headaches would come back again.

The cab driver was saying something to him.

"What?"

"I said we're here. That'll be $12.50."

Austin handed him a $50 and left the cab. The cab driver was saying something to him again.

"What?"

"I said this is just a piece of paper with a 50 written on it in crayon, asshole! Come back here before I call the cops!"

If Steve Austin was the paranoid type (which he absolutely made sure to remind himself on a minute-by-minute basis that he wasn't) he'd be worried about why he was carrying about money that was obviously fake and ripping off perfectly innocent cab drivers. It was 2:55 according to the big clock in the middle of the city park. Plenty of time.

For what?

He didn't know. The cab driver was talking to him again.

"What?"

The noise stopped. Good. 2:58. Time to go.

He woke up 15 minutes later, back in his apartment, covered in blood. If he was the paranoid type, he'd wonder how it got there. But he wasn't.

The TV was tuned into HNN the HHH News Network. They seemed pretty upset about something.

".and casualities totalling more than 350 at the BCN building, as an unidentified thing only described as a 'huge, snake-like monster' ripped through the facilities, killing everything in its path in a deadly rampage."

Austin tuned out again. He hated TV, which is why he found it so strange that he loved watching HHH-affiliated networks so much. If he were the paranoid type (which he wasn't, if he knew one thing it's that he WAS NOT) he'd think more about that. He also stopped to think for a second about how strange it was that he was standing right there, and yet he didn't remember any snake creature around him. He was sure he'd remember something like that. At least he thought he was sure. Or maybe he wasn't. Yeah, he wasn't so sure, that made the pain go away a little more. He liked that. Maybe, he thought to himself, he just missed the giant snake, like when he was going in it was going out or something. That made sense. The pain stopped. Just like when he watched the great programming of the HHH Networks.

Austin went to the fridge to get a beer. The cab driver's head was in the freezer. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. If he was the paranoid type, he'd think something was seriously wrong. But he wasn't. It was just easier that way.

The mailman dropped off another package of money for him. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

"Have you SEEN this?" General McMahon bellowed at Angleman.

The "this" in question was a copy of Tiger Beat magazine, with the newest teen-scream sensation superheroes Edge & Christian on the cover. The caption, in pink neon letters, read "Super HUNKS".

"Well, certainly the caption is a little cliché, sir, but it's a perfectly good picture." Angleman flashed that winning smile, just for the heck of it.

"That's not what I meant and you know it. When we agreed to officially sanction your activities as a superhero 10 years ago during the anti-hero legislation, it was with the explicit instructions that you and those you trained NOT go public during or after that time. And yet here's your former partner, on the cover of a major teen magazine."

"Well, sir, to be perfectly honest I didn't even realize Edge had gone solo I've been busy meeting with a former compatriot in the Justice Legion and I've been out of the loop for a few weeks. In fact, it's what, 3:00? See, I just got back two hours ago."

The general shot him a suspicious glance.

"You didn't discuss anything of importance to the national security, did you?"

"Oh, no sir. Strictly superhero shop talk. Boring stuff. Latest cape designs and things like that."

"Ah. Good. Can't be too careful, you know. Well, notwithstanding, this sudden outburst of publicity for a former government operative can't be good. So we want you to take out the both of them."

"Take out, sir?"

The general shot him a withering glance.

"Ah. 'Take out'. Well, as much as I love my country.which is a lot, sir, don't kid yourself, I was a former Olympic gold medalist before the freak accident that turned me into the crusader for justice and the American Way that I am today.as I was saying, as much as I love my country, ARE YOU FREAKIN' INSANE?"

"I think the details of your contract with the Pentagon are pretty clear about the chain of command, and I'm COMMANDING you to make Edge and Christian disappear. Now, either you handle that small task yourself, or we put Operation Destrucity into effect."

Angleman seemed a little uncomfortable with the prospects of that one.

"I thought that experiment was terminated because the guy you picked was a little nuts?"

General McMahon got right in Angleman's face and the vein in his forehead seemed ready to burst right then and there.

"Oh, no, Kurt, YOU'RE a little nuts. This guy is a certifiable lunatic. We can't lose with him in the game."

"But.but.sir.I was a one-in-a-billion fluke! When the lightning bolt hit that batch of chemicals and spilled on me while I was saying the Pledge of Allegiance, the original formula was lost! You'd never be able to duplicate the effects in the lab again."

As if on cue, a formerly-secret panel went flying through the room and smashed into the opposite wall. A long-haired, wild-eyed feral demon stepped into the room, seemingly snorting instead of breathing. He wore only a loincloth and facepaint. And he didn't seem to care.

"Never say never, Kurt. 10 years is a long time to work on an experiment, and I think we've got it with this batch. So here's the deal: Either you do the job as directed, or we turn things over to our secret weapon here.America's ultimate warrior and super-solider. And HIS first directive will be to make YOU into the one who disappears for good. Understand?"

"And if I resign my post, sir?"

"Then 'millionaire playboy' Kurt Angle loses his entire 'fortune' and gets exposed as fathering a child with an underaged girl 5 years ago. We created your public persona, and we can destroy it just as easily. We own you, Kurt. Don't ever forget that."

America's secret weapon snorted at him. And spoke.

"God bless America."

Angleman flew out of the skylight, not even bothering to say goodbye.

* * *

In the offices of Hardy / Helms / Hardy, the figurehead leaders of the biggest multinational media conglomerate on the planet, a party was in progress. A staggeringly wild one for them, too.

There were party hats and everything while they sat behind their identical desks.

"I believe everything is proceeding according to Mr. Levesque's original plan." Jeffrey said in his corporate-mandated monotone.

"Yes." Matthew continued for him in equally bland tones, "it is estimated that within 48.23 hours, give or take 0.05 hours, HHH Networks will have seized total control of the world's television and internet technology."

Shane Helms blew a noisemaker for effect.

"You don't seem as overjoyed as Matthew and myself," Jeffrey commented, "are you having trouble getting an acceptable percentage of funkiness going? Would another glass of distilled alcholic spirits perhaps lighten your mood another 5-7%, using a margin of error of 0.5% of course."

"Nothing of the sort," Helms answered, "I believe that there is a 65% or greater chance that I will be bringing da noise, bringing da funk within 12.4 minutes or less. I am merely distracted at the moment by the excitement that performing evil deeds brings with it."

The Hardy brothers nodded in agreement with that thought.

"In fact," Shane continued, "the 0.5% alcohol in this so-called 'brewsky' appears to having an intoxicating effect on me right now, and I believe I will adjourn to one of the other meeting rooms and fill out the proper forms for getting down with my bad self."

"Truly an acceptable plan of action." Matthew agreed. "Perhaps Jeffrey and myself will join you within the next 30 to 35 minutes, give or take 2 minutes."

"I look forward to the further social interaction." Shane answered, and then slipped into the next room.

Strangely enough, when Jeffrey and Matthew joined him there 30 to 35 minutes later at 3:00 (give or take 2 minutes), Shane's clothes were on the floor and the window was open.

"Mr. Helms appears to have disappeared." Jeffrey commented, oblivious to the obvious nature of his comment. "What is up with that?"

His only answer came as a green streak passed by the window, blowing the Hardy's perfectly-arranged ponytails a little to the left.