Instantly delighted, Billy had to lean back in his chair and touch his fist to his mouth, biting down hard to suppress the shit-eating grin that was threatening to earn him the ire of his boss. This was an opportunity that had just fallen into their laps on a silver platter. How often did the main event of Madison Square get tossed up in the air and get declared a free-for-all? He knew of one or two back on the indie circuit who would have literally killed for this kind of opportunity. Both were Mexican luchas. That wasn't racist, right? Some of his best friends were luchadors. 

When the door closed at last, the lazy-eyed rocker glanced to his left at the big Irishman. "Damn, Red... this is gonna be too easy. You want the main event too?" 

"Who doesn't?" Reddy had always gotten along well with Billy, they'd worked some great matches in the past. Standing, they both waved to the rest of the wrestlers and exited, heading for Billy's favorite brainstorming spot, the bleachers above the practice ring. Sitting down with a grunt, they both surveyed their kingdom in contented silence for a minute before getting down to business. 

"Ok, so we've got ten weeks," Billy began. "You're one of the best heels on the roster, storywise. Everyone likes seeing Ivan lose the big one. But you're a hundred pounds bigger than me, so you're going to have no problem kicking me around. Honestly? As it stands, I want to start something now that will take us all ten weeks to the Garden. You and me, East versus West, it'll be gold." 

The Irishman nodded. "I'd like to see that too. Ok, we aim big. What's the worst that can happen? Sonny pulls the plug and we've just wasted three weeks, regardless of what we've done up till then." 

"That's the spirit," Billy grinned. "I need to hide a mini-fridge up here. Beer is always good for the brain." 

Putting his feet up, Reddy considered the ring. "Mmmm.... how do you want to do this? Reckon I should kick a flag or something?" 

Billy grimaced, and shook his head. "Too soon, man, too soon. We have to build up to it. No, and here's the thing... I think I should win his one. Wait, wait, hear me out. See, we want to make it personal, yeah? Generic USA vs. Russia has been done a thousand times. I want you to have a better reason to hate on me than just 'me big fat Russian, squash American!'. If I beat you in the first match, we give Sonny a sneak peek of the Garden match, and we give you a reason to hate on me." 

"Can't we just wrestle?" Reddy half-joked. He'd never been one for the storylines, Billy remembered. "They'll cheer regardless of the complex shit. I cheap shot you for the win, then someone comes out of the back and clobbers me. I look dirty, you look strong, everyone's happy." 

"You got no soul, man," Billy chided. "You got everyone else's soul rattling around in there and none of your own, you soul-snatching sonofa--" 

"That's gingers!" Red shoved him, laughing. "I ain't ginger, I'm Black Irish!"

"Ginger on the inside," Billy cackled, shoving back and only succeeding in scooting his own ass further along the bench. "Ok, ok. So hear me out. I put you over, but I still win, see. You beat me like a pinata, I only win because of a clever reversal. You get mad, 'stupid tricky Americans take advantage of poor fat Russian', and spend the next ten weeks chasing me around the arena, sneak attacking me, interfering in my matches, all that good shit. Maybe I challenge you to a couple of straight fights and you win by cheating. Then it all comes to a head at the Garden." 

Red mused on that. Ten weeks of TV time was nothing to sneeze at. This could be his big break, and they both knew it. 

"All right," he said finally. "All right. So how do you want to do it?" 

"We tape a couple of promos for Sonny," Billy said. "We work separate matches at the local venues, build each of us up separately. Make people curious to see who's gonna put the big fat Russian down. Then when the show starts, I'm the first one out, leading the people in the Pledge of Allegiance. You interrupt me, call me a few generic insults. I offer to kick you so hard the Motherland will feel it, you laugh and walk off. Then the first match starts. After that, we play a taped promo, me calling you out for your insult to the Pledge of Allegiance. I'll challenge you to a good old American Showdown. Another match, then we play the second promo, you accepting the challenge and threatening to make me your Gulag Girl." 

"Reckon Sonny will let me say that on TV?" 

"Worst that happens is we re-record that promo," Billy shrugged. "Then we have our match, but you're over-confident. We go back and forth, you build some great heat, then stop and start trying to lead the crowd in 'Oh Russia, the Motherland I'd Like To Fuck'. While your back is turned, I get up, tap you on the shoulder. You turn around and surprise, bitch! For America and apple pie!" 

"I like apple pie." 

"I don't. Clean win, I strut out of there. When I get to the top of the ramp, you grab a microphone and threaten me, tell me to watch my back."

Red considered that some more. "Sounds complicated. Reckon Sonny will go for it?" 

"All we have to do is put the two promos together. The wrestling will take care of itself. Just show him the two promos, and tell him that I win clean. Short and sweet." 

A doleful eye from the huge Irishman. "You came up with that awfully fast." 

"I think fast." Which was partially true. Billy liked to think while he worked out, and pitching various storylines with people in the locker room was a great way to occupy his mind while pushing through sets. Billy had several such plots including a tag team partner already picked and a romantic triangle that was only coincidentally starring the finest two girls in the locker room. 

"I still think we should just wrestle," Red stood up with a groan. "But fuck it, I'll give this a shot. I'll go write a couple of promos." 

Giving him a thumbs-up, Billy sat back, quite pleased. Yeah. He could make this good.