#firstop

My short, tragic fanfic of Vince McMahon and Stone Cold Steve Austin (prease rike it): Enter on McMahon sitting at his desk, alone and in the dark. He looks forlornly at a single piece of paper, a pen, and a revolver with a single bullet loaded.

“It’s too late now. Things can never go back to how they were…” He mutters under his breath. “I can only hope he can come to understand that I did all of this for him.” McMahon picks up the pen and puts it to the paper. He struggles to put his thoughts into words and even as they come to him he has no idea if they’re what he truly wants to say.

“It’s me, Austin,” he begins.

It’s me, Austin. It’s been me this entire time. I’ve been the one pulling the strings, the one behind the scenes, the one making fools of everyone. It was me, Austin.

I know what you must be thinking and I just want to ask that you do not blame my family. They didn’t know. Nobody knew; not even J.R. Everyone bought my act: hook, line, and sinker.

But you have to understand, Austin, that I didn’t want to do this. I HAD to do this. YOU made me, Austin; you made me do this. You were out of control and you had to be stopped and the only way to do that was if I taught you a lesson. A lesson you would never, ever forget.

And I hope you understand that lesson, Austin. It wasn’t an easy one to teach and even now I don’t know if I could put you through that again. I only take solace in the fact that now you know.

I’ve paid a great price to teach you, Austin, and now I will pay the ultimate price for having done to you what I did. I will shortly be sending myself to the deepest, darkest depths of the afterlife to repent for what I’ve done. I only hope you can forgive me, Austin. Forgive me for making your life here on earth a complete, living Hell.

 Goodbye, Austin

-Vince

McMahon sets the pen aside. He reads over his letter once. Twice. A third time.

After reading it a fourth time, McMahon is satisfied. He sits there, alone, for what to him feels like an eternity. After some time, he steels himself for what he knows he must now do.

He picks up the revolver and slowly lifts it to his right temple and places the end of the barrel against his head.