Test and Albert SLAM THE SUMMER!
by Swan

Somber faces filled a somber room. Scratch that. Somber faces, leather pants, and eighteen large trucks full of back hair filled a somber room as Shane McMahon lay unconscious on a stretcher. Only moments after the brutal fall from the Summerslam 2000 "Tron," the mood is an ominous one, a mood that Jim Ross would call "the damnedest mood he'd ever seen." A mood Kevin Kelly would call "a most heinous, a most vicious" mood. A mood Michael Cole would call "symbolic," before adding something about a WWF midcarder being out of control on HeAT. An out of control midcarder...like Prince Albert.

"RAAAAAAAH! I'm out of control!" screamed Albert, banging his bulbous head against the locker room wall. "I fancy myself a master of the bo staff! How could I have missed my intended target, Hardcore Champion Steve Blackman, only to strike my own tag team partner, the man they call Test???" He hung his large head in shame, and cried pierced tears.

"Why do they call you Test anyway?" interrupted fitness guru Trish Stratus, adjusting her eighteen foot long orange snakeskin sleeveless bathrobe. Her eyebrows darted up like painted on rainbows in an over-tanned sky.

"They call him 'Test' because they wouldn't let him into the Corporation until he beat up the Rock," interjected the sad Prince. "Like a test."

From across the room, Albert's tag team partner Andrew "Test" Test spoke up. "They call me Test cause I BE DA BOMB YO." Andrew inserted a "Jay-Z" cassette into his walkman and continued, "strate up biotches call me sire, know what I'm sayin'?"

Trish removed her furry, flourescent green, leopard-print cowboy hat and pointed a stiff index finger into T's face. "See, this is exactly what our problem is! We never concentrate on wrestling long enough to get the job done!"

On the stretcher, Shane McMahon gasped for air, managing to say "booya" twice before passing out again. Trish continued...

"I didn't quit posing in bikinis on the covers of Men's Fitness magazines, come to a scripted professional wrestling television show, and name two talentless guys in leather pants after my tits and ass to hurt my career!" She angrily kicked a seven-inch leather=spiked knee-high platform boot into the hallway, killing two and seriously injuring a school bus of small children.

Albert pulled the feelings of self-loathing out of his back hair and knelt before the former Hardcore Champion. Shane had taken such a fall that he'd only managed to create three parody T-shirts before losing his senses. "Shane O Mac," Albert began, "my little bro! We've gone through so much together! I mean, without your 'attitude' and guidance I never would've tag teamed with Darren Drosdov."

"Yeah bro, that team rawked the casbah, guys in fishnets are the shiz-nit," Test added, before breaking into uncontrollable laughter. "Biotch!"

A ignored T's childishness and extended his feelings of regret. "Without Shane McMahon's influence in the WWF, I would've never participated in the innovative storylines that have made me an international superstar!"

"Like the time you and the Bossman tear gassed the Big Show," commented Trish. "That was awesome." The fitness guru rolled her eyes, knocking off thriteen false lashes.

"Or the time you pierced my nose, and then I tattooed your butt!" added Test.

Albert glanced over and glared into Test's reflective sunglasses. "That wasn't you, retarded, that was Val Venis."

Andrew's jaw dropped, like Droz's career. "Oh, das right. Yo, I hear he's got like a huge dick." Test's braggard accusations compressed, like Droz's spinal cord. "Was I the one who pulled the briefcase up at Backlash last year?"

The realization was clearer than the tubes running up Droz's nose. "That wasn't you, you idiot," said Albert, "that was the Big Bossman. You see, Vince guaranteed that no member of the Corporation would interfere in the match. On Sunday Night HeAT that night, the Big Bossman got kicked out of the Corporation. Later that night, somebody raised the briefcase. Then, the next night on RAW, the Bossman came out as a face, but then said 'I love you guys' and hugged the Corporation. So you see, anybody who isn't a complete dumbass would've realized that not everything should be repeated thirty times in a row in some video package on Livewire for the fans to understand."

Test looked confused. "YO THAS TITE when they do that junx." His voice deepened. "Not a league for pantywastes or sissies. For pantywastes or sissies. Not a league for pantywastes and sissies."

Suddenly, Albert's back hair stood at attention, like little erections of realization. "Wait a minute! My career in the WWF hasn't been great at all!" He turned to Shane, bleeding slowly to death on the stretcher, in anger. "I HATE THE MCMAHONS! FEEL THE WRATH OF MY ALBERT BOMB!"

Trish rushed towards Albert and threw her hands up. "No, A, stop! The Albert Bomb is too devastating!"

The mammoth Prince struggled to keep his hands from clasping around Shane's kinda-tubby-but-not-really-considering neck. "BUT I USE THE ALBERT BOMB TO FINISH OFF MY OPPONENTS!"

Test began to gently rub Albert's back, a gesture of kindness that had proven useful to calm down his tag team partner in the past, but is in no way homosexual. "C'mon Albert, that beef ain't worth no green yo."

Trish gave the thumbs up. "T is right, A. And if you promise to be nice, we'll go to White Castle after the show's over!"

Prince Albert's eyes lit up brighter than the light that beckons to Droz every morning. "White Castle?" The strongman lifted his pals in a pierced group hug. "ALBERT LOVES WHITE CASTLE!"

On his deathbed, Shane McMahon began screaming "OH YEAH OH YEAH OH YEAH BABY ONE TIME YEAH YEAH OH YEAH COME ON OH YEAH." Nobody heard him, so he through himself off of a twenty story building through three dozen tables and into a swimming pool filled with broken glass and hungry alligators.

Noboby knows where Shane McMahon is today...but legend has it, that on a night just like this, when the wind whistles...just like this... if you listen closely, you can still hear the ghost of Shane-O Mac, still trying to get Steve Blackman over.

Boo!

Hahahah!

Got you!

Oh come on, you were scared!

No?

You lie!

No?

Well if that didn't scare you...wait until you hear the story about the Hardy Boyz, talented young handsome wrestlers................................ WHO NEVER WIN!!!!! MUUUHUUHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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