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Title: Crows
Author: Opera
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned are property of WWE. Well... at least Taker is. The character of Cowboy is probably trademarked too. Bob Orton owns himself. Maybe. WWE has shady lawyers. My fandom gives me a headache. In any case, no copyright infringement intended or profits made.
Characters: Cowboy Bob Orton/Undertaker. Cameos/mentions of Randy Orton, Rey Mysterio, Jr, Johnny Nitro, and Joey Mercury.
Warnings: Old guys doing it, and swearing all the while. Crude, out-dated terms and phrases. Graphic sexual situations, dialogue and content.
Notes: Yeah, yeah. Fired. Yeah, yeah. Hepatitis. Whatever.


All Bob wanted was Pabst and quiet. What he got was Taker looking pleased at the sight of an ashtray, and settling onto the bar stool next to him-- even though there were a dozen empties around. Taker lit up and gave him a sidewise glance. Bob wasn't much in the mood for talking tonight, but he supposed he should say something. He was in no position anymore to be aloof. "What brings you around, Young 'un?"

"Haven't been called that in decade." Taker offered his hand meekly, limp-fingered, the way the indy kids did their first night in the "superstar" locker room. "And here you've been back for months, and I still haven't properly said hello."

Well, well. Young'un still had manners, a little respect for the old boys. Bob tipped his hat and shook Taker's hand. "It's good to be working with ya."

Taker nodded, turned to order a beer. Now that the man wasn't all slicked up with stage make-up, Bob could see the wrinkles in the corner of each eye, like three tiny claw marks. Like exhaustion had latched onto Taker real tight and wasn't planning on letting go. Like maybe Taker spent his days on the road the same way he did: looking forward to getting home and having a long nap.

They didn't say much for a while. Johnny Cash was on the jukebox. Taker finished his cigarette. Bob watched that cute Mexican kid, Rey, flitting about the place. Had a slice of lime, of all things, in his beer. "What's the story on that one?"

Taker sniffed a couple of times and shook his head. "That one's straight."

"Straight up his ass or straight down his throat?"

"Straight into McMahon's office, threatening to sue or write a Tell All."

"Oh." Bob's swig of Pabst turned warm and bitter. "One of those."

"Yep. One of those."

When Taker's second beer arrived, one came for Bob too. Bob nodded a thanks. Taker nodded in return, then focused his attention on the Spurs game on the TV. Bob was glad for the quiet. He could get back to this evening's original intent: having himself a solid think concerning Randy.

Traveling with that son of his was nothing but cause for bad bowels. The selfish little prick was forever taking off with the rental car and leaving him stranded or sticking him with the hotel bill or bringing a conga line of sluts up to their room when all Bob wanted to do was sit around in his shorts and watch the Rams.

They should have been bonding during all those hours they spent in the car, but Randy just sat there wearing ear phones and not caring when Bob pointed out the old venues he'd wrestled at. Sure, most of those joints were long torn down, the land given over to strip malls and Burger Kings, but the boy could make a polite effort every once in a while.

Bled his heart dry that Randy didn't care one whit for the history of the business. Though he supposed Randy half-assing it was better than having him loafing around the house, jobless like the other two kids, or getting on the local news for a cocaine bust like Lawler's brood. And really, shoving history and respect and all that other squawk aside, Bob knew if he looked deep inside himself and got honest, his real disgruntlement with the boy came from having to admit that if it wasn't for Randy, McMahon would have never put him in the Hall of Fame-- at least not while he was still alive and kicking.

And he certainly wouldn't be getting regular paychecks and another chance to be out on the road. The pisser was the perks of the road weren't really perks anymore. He'd already seen most places. Drinking just made him sleepy nowadays. Drugs were never his bag-- made him feel goofy and citified. Ring rats scurried right past him and went after Randy.

Not that the attentions of ring rats really mattered either. These days gals weren't to his liking. Too much perfume. Fake tits that felt like granite. And even though their panties had gotten steadily tinier over the decades, they'd also gotten more complicated. Laced-up. Snapped-down. Crisscrossed. A man had to be a safe-cracker to figure them out.

The only broad he bothered with anymore was the Missus back home. Mainly because she had a gut like his, so there was no feeling bad on anyone's part. Though just because he was sticking to one gal didn't mean he wouldn't mind a little action from the boys. But all that damn metrosexual stuff made it hard to tell who was willing and who'd deck him and tell his lime-drinking buddies about Old Faggot Orton.

He was about to give up on the boys for the same reasons he had soured on the girls. Those giggly twinks hanging around with Randy always smelled like Australian Hibiscus or vanilla or some other such nonsense. All of 'em had pecs that were nothing but 'roid-fertilized D-cups. He was sure they had complicated panties too.

Johnny Cash gave over to Jessica Simpson, and with her screeching came Randy. Carrying one of them fancy beers. With a lime in it. Keys to the rental around the neck of the bottle. "I'm gonna head off with Nite and Merc. Catch a cab back to the hotel, okay?"

"One of them can drive if you want to go clubbing."

"None of them got a car either. It's cheaper for you to take a cab back to the hotel than it is for us to keep paying for them all night long. Here." Randy handed over a crumpled twenty. "I'll even pay for your cab. More than pay for it. Fare's only what-- eight bucks? It's like I bought you breakfast too."

"To hell with breakfast. What did we agree about the car not two minutes before we came in here?"

"Just get a ride from someone! God! You're always going on and on about all 'the ways the boys have to look after each other on the road'."

"And this is what I was talking about." Bob folded his arms to keep himself from whapping Randy upside the head. "I don't front a rental so that you can up and leave me stranded whenever the chance comes around."

"You think I want any of this traveling together bullshit? You gonna take this money or not? 'Cause I'm taking the car either way."

Taker grabbed Bob's arm, held him to his stool. "He's got himself a ride, Randy. You and your girls can go do your dancing."

Bob plucked the twenty out of Randy's sweaty paws, wishing the world wasn't so damn PC so he could bring his belt down on the boy. "It's settled, Randy. Run along."

"Tell you what," Taker said, watching Randy sashay out the door with his gaggle of nellies. "We're fools for sitting here, paying six bucks a pop for beer. I got some J.D. back in my room. Let's go hit that."



Taker poured Jack into two paper cups and handed one to Bob before plunking himself into the room's one chair. "The office paying you good?"

"Oh, it's not great, but I ain't going to complain." There was no where else to sit except for the man's bed, and that didn't feel right. So Bob leaned against the dresser. That bit of courtesy did his knees no favors. "Seems like all I ever heard when I came into the business was old farts bitching about making no money."

"It's not just the old farts who bitch." Taker downed his shot and smiled like he was trying to make a show of liking whiskey more than he did. "That night we drank together in Cincinnati, back in '87: you were having troubles, but you never bitched. You sat and talked and drank with us rookies like we all just split a winning lottery ticket. That was decent of you. Meant a lot to me then."

Bob shook his head. "I remember the few times we crossed ways, but to be honest, if you hadn't of made it, I wouldn't be remembering you. Treating you right was more the luck of my mood than good intentions."

"Never been a believer in luck, and those times you hit on me, it was straight up. You didn't give me any bullshit about making me a star or getting me in good with McMahon or keeping the Legion off me."

"I couldn't keep snow off the Sahara." Bob winced at the admission. "No need to lie."

"It was nice hearin' the truth. Would've listened to it every night. When you hit on me... I didn't mean to play any of that coy bullshit with ya, but you know the headaches that giving it up too easy can cause. Didn't want to turn you down those first couple of times, but I always thought we'd bump into each other more than we did. Glad it finally happened. Though I'd hoped you'd still have that cast."

"I don't think I could take the itch this time around."

Taker shifted in his chair, those mile-long legs stretching out and spreading wide, hand resting right above his meat. "Thing about an itch is, there's usually someone around willing to scratch it."

Sweat trickled down's Bob's neck. Taker had him eager as a goat. Except that he was sure Taker's words were nothing but posturing for the one guy he still felt like a rookie with. In a minute they'd start jack-jawing about all the broads they'd boned through the years. He wouldn't be getting any luckier tonight than he had a couple of decades ago, but his dick had fun contemplating it.

"That was a come-on," Taker said, getting up, getting near. "Yeah, old man. I'm offering you a piece."

Whiskey had nothing to do with the burn in his gut right now. Bob breathed in deep and got a snootful of road stink and old leather. His dick just about shot out of his pants. One of the not-so-pristine reasons he followed his daddy's footsteps into the rasslin' business was so he could be near raw-boned giants like this one. "Not turning my nose up at the goods offered. Not in the least. All I'm wondering is what you want with an old man when there's so much prime cootch out there."

"A pretty face, a perfect ass... I ain't complaining about those things one bit. But, it's been so long since I've been in bed with someone I can respect... who I can stand to eat a plate of eggs with come morning or share a beer with the next night. We don't know each other so well yet. But we understand each other, and that goes a long way in my book. So are you game?"

Shit, he was up for a best-of-seven series. And he had a feeling that lying with Taker would be the straight-out, plain-dealing kind of fucking. None of that crossing ankles behind heads or worrying about coming together or creating eternal Tantric bonds. Just two buddies having themselves a time. Bob dropped his hat onto the dresser. "Well then, let's get this rodeo started."

Taker flopped onto the bed, a grin smashed up one side of his face. "I expect to be rode longer than eight seconds."

Boots quickly dispensed with, Bob sank down beside Taker. Decent mattress. His back took note of such things-- no fuck could be grand enough to suffer through what a cheap mattress was able to do to his spine over the course of a night. He met Taker's eye, didn't say anything; a nod sufficed for all they had to say right now. They met forehead to forehead like they were having an argument in the ring. From there, it was easy enough to slip into a kiss. He could taste booze and cigarettes on Taker. Sour and full of sin. Ever since the Missus made him quit smoking, the rare tastes of tobacco he managed were like sips of ashy nectar.

He licked his lips, then Taker's. Savored the smoke. Let it roll over his tongue, drift into his lungs. Banked it so come morning, he'd wake with the sooty taste still in his mouth. They locked up. Bob's shirt shifted over his skin, bunching in Taker's grasp. The top snap burst, a convenient ace from Lady Luck and Bob shrugged out of the sleeves. Undid his belt. Taker handled the zipper, and then without any monkeying around, bent low and took to his dick.

Bob reclined against the pillows, arms crooked behind his head, half-wishing for a smoke. Taker's hair fell over his lap. Bob could see the gray beneath the dye job. He ran his hand along Taker's neck. The skin was pale back there. Soft too. He resisted tracing the tats. Everyone probably did that. Instead he massaged the knot where spine met neck, the hub where ring-aches and pains tended to hunker down. A minute or so in, he felt Taker's body relax, and more of his dick slid down his throat.

Got him feeling settled-in and drowsy. He brushed away strands of Taker's hair and held back a handful. Lazily, he watched that mouth work his cock, that tongue mop up pre-come. Taker latched hold of Bob's cock, stretched it away from his balls, tipping it towards his belly. He licked the head clean, started in on the shaft. His hand wrapped around the root, stroking the meat his mouth couldn't get at, and going after what he could with a tongue cobwebbed with pre-come.

Spit and another swell of pre-come dribbled down his cock. Soaked his fly, shined up his zipper. Taker chased the streams. Eager enough that Bob wondered if he had a taste for piss. He'd sooner not mess with that. He tugged Taker's hair, and Taker eased off his dick, spat and grinned.

"You got yourself a talent, young'un."

Taker sat up, kicked off his boots. "Since I ain't much in the looks the department, I've always had to rely on talent and congeniality. That little talent of mine helped me clean up at the Miss Texas pageant. I placed third."

From behind, Bob stripped Taker out of his tank. "Shoot, if I'd known I was in for a little action from the third-best cocksucker in the state of Texas, I would have put on a bolo tie."

"And it would've looked real fancy laying there on the floor, next to your boots." Taker reached for the J.D. Took a pull and handed the bottle to Bob. A couple of passes and they killed it. Tossed the bottle to the floor, watched it spin, turned to each other.

The kiss that came was all whiskey. Steadily boozing up his guts and heating his belly. Bob lodged himself against Taker, holding on to his hair with both hands, kissing for the long haul. Been too long since he strung out an evening just appreciating the warmth and taste of another man.

Taker's arm swung around his shoulders, armpit yawning in his face. Without that tank of his, Taker smelled better. Nothing but the vinegar of his sweat and the smoky musk beneath it. Made for clean grazing. His mouth left Taker's to have a go at the meat on his shoulder, the muscle beneath, the scrolls of ink work-- everywhere except the neck. Wouldn't be right, leaving marks so close to Sara's tattoo.

He wrangled open Taker's denim, anxious to see how far below the belt those tattoos of Taker's went. Plenty of ink. No drawers. He gave a whistle at Taker's schlong. Beer-bottle thick, ringed by a scrub of red and gray pubes. Bob ran his cheek against the wool. Taker laid one heavy hand on the back of Bob's head and the other gave an impatient stroke to that fat dick swaying above. Waiting on him to even up the blowjob count. Well, he'd get to that. But first he headed for Taker's sac-- ball-tending was the surest way to see how rabbity a guy was gonna behave while he was trying to get up his ass.

And he never had him a fire crotch before. At least, not a true one. He got down there real low like he might give Taker's asshole a kiss and mouthed those bull nuts. Held them snug and tongue-flicked their underbelly. Taker's thighs lolled. His breath burbled, his words swam through whiskey. "Yeah, that's what I want."

Bob peeked over Taker's gut. "You drunk?"

"Just feeling good. Was feeling better, though, when you were grubbing on my nuts."

Bob headed south again. Spread his tongue like a sail and twice circumnavigated those globes. Coming around for a third, he caught sight of Taker: leg bent, showing hole. Huge fingers curling around that ox cock. Bob left the balls proper and licked behind them, then up and down Taker's crack. Tongued his hole. Taker bucked. Did a horizontal belly dance. Snarled at him. "Shit, Cowboy. How come you and that mouth never had more belts?"

"Guess I ain't McMahon's type." He smacked Taker on the hip. "You got any grease handy?"

Taker nodded to a duffel laying on the floor, near the bed. Sitting atop a pair of Levi's was a tub of Vaseline. Bob snatched hold of it, popped that lid like a Pabst. Virgin jelly. Not a stray pube in the mix. He glazed his hand clear down to the wrist. Jimmied a lubed-up finger into Taker's pucker and twirled it-- never was real keen on that. Reminded him of digging hair out of a sink drain. Lucky for him, Taker fidgeted against the poke.

"Keep your panties on, young'un." Bob muttered, still waxing Taker's hole, giving it a pre-fuck gleam. Shining it to showroom quality. Could almost see his reflection. All that slopping around in the lube was not entirely selfless, though; he liked the feel of it on his dick.

He sank in, glad to see Taker didn't do that creepy eye roll thing he does on television when he did it. No moaning or groaning or theatrics either. Just a loose smile that let him know he was on target. He nursed the fuck until he found the right groove, then he planted a hand on Taker's shoulder, gaining the leverage to hump away, legs v-ing with each thrust, balls smacking against Taker's spit-shined crack.

And Taker fucked him right back. Kept him nose to nose, tongue swabbing his throat, whiskey-breath steaming his lungs. He grabbed meaty handfuls of ass, chasing after every backstroke like he was worried the fuck might get away. Bob clenched hold of Taker's waist, stilling him, driving his cock down to the gristle. Taker came with a snort and a "Damn it, Cowboy." His come sprayed as hot and steady as a stream of piss. Drenched Bob's gut, backsplashed onto the bedspread.

Bob fucked on, knowing he should be praising the blast but the truth was, he wouldn't have minded Taker lasting longer. He was still a ways off from shooting, and the tail end of a rut got sloppy enough without cold come gumming the works. But, to his credit, Taker didn't slack none. Kept the fuck going like he never came at all. That kind of ass-hospitality just wasn't extended much anymore.

After thanking Taker with a mighty glorious pounding, Bob gunned it. Shooting strong. Come backwashed out of Taker's ass with every stroke but as long as he wasn't putting up a fuss, Bob saw no reason to let up on charging down that wet track. Made him feel young to keep going, and he humped away until his dick went flabby.

After the gasping and the heaving passed, they sorted themselves out and fell to separate sides of the bed. No shit clung to his dick, so he could sprawl back and recover for a minute. Bob breathed in real deep, then had to hold down a soggy cough before it could turn into a wheeze. Wet air thrashed around his lungs like a bat caught in the curtains. Sitting up was the only way to keep the phlegm down, and anyway, it was best to get a move on before he got too comfortable. He squinted though the darkness, trying to spot his shorts. He hated having to hunt for them naked.

Taker rolled to face him. "Why don't you spend the night?"

"I really should get back. Randy will---" Bob stood, then pictured himself stumbling in the dark, fighting with his boots, having to spend his breakfast money on a cab. He flopped into the pillows. "Aw, Hell."

"Damn right," Taker agreed.